Wildcards VI: Ace In The HoleAce In The Hole
Book 6 of Wildcards
Edited by George R.R. Martin
ISBN: 0-553-28253-0

CHAPTER ONE
Monday July 18, 1988
6:00 A.M.
Spector pulled down on the padlock with a gloved hand. The lock snapped open. He 
unlatched the corrugated tin door and put his weight against it, pushing it up 
and sideways, trying to make as little noise as possible. He slid his thin body 
through and shut the door behind him. So far it was going just like they said.
The place smelled of dust and fresh paint. The light was dim, coming from a 
single overhead lamp in the center of the warehouse. He paused to let his eyes 
adjust. There were boxes of masks all around. Clowns, politicians, animals, some 
just normal human faces. He picked up a bear mask and put it on; might as well 
be safe if someone flipped on the lights. The plastic pinched his nose and the 
eveholes were smaller than he would have liked. His peripheral vision was shot. 
Spector moved slowly toward the light, turning his head back and forth to make 
sure no one was closing in on him.
He was a few minutes early. He figured it was the smart thing to do. Someone had 
gone to a lot of trouble tracking him down and arranging this meeting. They were 
either desperate, or they were setting him up. It could mean trouble either way. 
Dust irritated his eyes, but he couldn't do anything about it with the mask on. 
He stopped a dozen or so feet from the light and waited. The only sound was the 
moths pinging against the metal light fixture.
"Are you there?" The voice was muffled, but definitely male, and came from the 
other side of the lighted area. Spector cleared his throat. "Yeah, it's me. Why 
don't you move into the light so I can see you?"
"I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am. Let's keep it that way." 
There was a pause. Paper crinkled in the darkness.
"So. Let's hear it." Spector took a long, easy breath. This didn't feel like a 
setup, and he had the upper hand.
An arm reached forward into the light. The person was short enough to be a kid, 
but the arm was thick with heavy muscle. The fingers on the hand were short. The 
edge of a plastic glove peeked out from under the leather one. This guy was 
obviously being very careful. The hand held a manilla envelope. "Everything you 
need to know is in here."
"Toss it over." The arm threw it toward him. The envelope landed heavily and 
skidded to the edge of the lighted area, stirring up dust and paint flecks. 
"Like the sound of that. "' Spector walked over to the envelope. Hell, let the 
guy see him in the bear mask. It wouldn't matter. He picked the envelope up and 
popped it open with a thumb. There were several carefully hatched stacks of 
hundred dollar bills, a round-trip ticket to Atlanta in the name of George 
Kerby, and a piece of paper that had been folded over twice. Spector figured 
there was over fifty thousand.
"Half now. The rest when the job's finished." The voice had moved, and was now 
between Spector and the door. Spector opened the slip of paper and held it up to 
the light to read. He took a sharp breath. "Shit. Never ask for anything small. 
And Atlanta, too. What a mess that'll be. Why not wait until he's back in town 
and get a refund on George Kerby's plane ticket?"
"I want it taken care of in the next week. Tomorrow wouldn't be too soon. We got 
a deal?"
"Yeah, okay," Spector said, bending the envelope over and tucking it into his 
shirt. "You must hate this guy something fierce."
The door opened. Spector got a glimpse of the man before he pulled it closed 
again. Four feet tall and built like a linebacker-a dwarf. Not many of those 
around. And only one who had it in for the guy he'd been hired to nail.
"I heard you were dead, Gimli." No answer. But he couldn't expect any from 
someone who was supposedly stuffed and mounted in the Famous Bowery Wild Card 
Dime Museum. Still, Spector knew better than anyone that just because a person 
was supposed to be a stiff didn't necessarily make it SO.
It was Rat's Alley, where the dead men lost their bones. Where Jokers Wild was, 
was Rat's Alley.
It was probably a good alley for rats.
The last of the customers stumbled out through the door, set like a scream into 
a blank brick imbecile face of wall. The doorway was normal height, but most of 
them kept heads ducked low into collars wilted with the sweat of fear, 
anticipation, and sweet release, kept them that way as they picked their way 
through mother-of-pearl puddles, the faded glory of plastic food wrappers, stale 
city smell of tired proteins and complex hydrocarbons aging without grace.
An insignificant figure loitered next to the doorway, James Dean with a 
hunchback, his black Ked propped against the wall behind him, his white one down 
in the muck, nodding and humming low in his throat to make sure the night's 
clientele kept heading in the right direction. It was no sweat. The ones still 
inside were leaving to put the rubbery, giggling menace of Moon Goon behind 
them, and once outside the right direction was away from him.
On the other side of the door a bulky figure, bagged in black cloak and 
pantaloons, nodded and murmured floorwalker endearments through a seamless 
clown's mask: "Thankyou. Please come again. Thank you. Always a pleasure." At 
most they nodded back.
Last out were a handful of Beautiful Youths, late teens who still managed to 
look fresh and scrubbed beneath their flattops and floppy nouveaux dos, the 
jokers Wild wait staff.
James Dean manque watched them walk. His pupils dilated when his eyes fixed the 
boys, jocks as clean limbed and muscled as fledgling Howard heroes. He wasn't 
aware. They were probably queers anyway. There were queers everywhere; you never 
could tell. Mackie's scrotum and fingertips itched at the thought; there were 
things he liked to do to queers. Not that he got much chance. The Gatekeeper and 
the Man were always on him to be careful where he used his powers. And whom on.
When the last were gone from Rat's Alley, the man with the clown face shut the 
door. Its outside was enameled a chipped green. He took hold of the frame with 
white-gloved fingers, pulled it away from the wall. What lay behind was brick. 
He folded door and frame into a bundle, like a collapsed artist's easel, and 
tucked it into the billow of one armpit.
"Be good, Mackie," he said, reaching up to pet the thin cheek, just showing a 
scum of downy whiskers. Mackie didn't pull away. Gatekeeper wasn't queer, he 
knew that. He liked it when the masked man touched him. He liked approval. A 
skinny teenage expatriate hunchback didn't get much of that. Especially when 
Interpol wanted to talk to him.
"I will, Gatekeeper," he said, grinning lopsidedly and bobbing his head. "You 
know I'm always good." His words had a broad loopy north German lilt to them.
Gatekeeper regarded him a moment longer. His eyes were only visible sometimes. 
Right now they were just hooded blacknesses in his mask.
His gloved fingertips slid down Mackie's face, rasping softly. He turned and 
walked away, down the alley with a slight waddle, carrying his bundle beneath 
his arm.
Mackie went the other direction, picking his way carefully around the puddles. 
He hated to get his feet wet. Tonight, Rat's Alley would be somewhere else. He'd 
find it, no worry. He'd feel the call, the siren's song of jokers Wild, like the 
rest of those who belonged, the victims and the audience, whose thrills sprang 
in part from the knowledge that their roles were interchangeable.
Not Mackie, though. In Jokers Wild, Mackie was untouchable. Nobody fucked with 
him in the nightclub of the damned.
He emerged on Ninth into a breeze full of Hudson River and diesel fumes. Motile 
features contorted in a brief twitch of nostalgia and loathing: it was just like 
the Hamburg docks where he'd grown up.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned his higherright-shoulder to the 
wind. He had to check a message drop in a Bowery flop. The Man was doing 
something big down in Atlanta. He might need Mackie at any time. Mackie Messer 
couldn't bear to miss a moment of being needed.
He started to hum his song, his ballad. Ignoring a tortured rabbit squeal of bus 
air brakes, he walked.

7:00 A.M.
The crazies were out early. Once he walked past the police perimeter at the 
Atlanta Marriott Marquis, Jack Braun saw hundreds of convention delegates, 
dressed mostly in casual clothes, silly hats, and vests covered with campaign 
buttons; several stretch limos carrying Party Elders; a 1971 primer-gray 
Chevrolet Impala with a swastika flag fluttering from the aerial and three 
uniformed Nazi storm troopers sitting stonefaced in the front seat-for some 
reason no one was in back-and two gangs of jokers hanging their disfigured heads 
out of battered VW microbuses, waving at the crowd, and laughing at the 
reactions of the pedestrians. The microbuses were covered with Hartmann stickers 
and other political slogans. FREE SNOTMAN, said one. BLACK DOG RULES, said the 
other.
Gregg Hartmann, Jack Braun thought, would not approve. Associating the next 
president in the public mind with a joker terrorist was not approved political 
strategy.
Jack could feel sweat beading on his scalp. Even at seven-thirty in the morning, 
Atlanta was humid and sweltering.
Reconciliation breakfast. In an hour he and Hiram Worchester were supposed to 
become good friends. He wondered why he'd let Gregg Hartmann talk him into it.
The hell with the stroll, he thought savagely. He'd clear his head some other 
way. He turned around and headed back to the Marriott.
Jack had spent the previous night in his suite at the Marriott, getting sloshed 
with four uncommitted superdelegates from the parched Midwest. Gregg Hartmann's 
campaign manager, Charles Devaughn, had called with the suggestion that a little 
Hollywood charm might swing the uncommitted over to Gregg's camp. Jack, resigned 
by now, knew perfectly well what that meant. He made a few calls to some agents 
he knew. By the time the superdelegates arrived, the room had been stocked with 
bourbon, scotch, and genuine Georgia starlets, veterans of locally produced 
films with names like Chain Gang Women and Stock Car Carnage. When the party 
finally broke up about three in the morning and the last congressman from 
Missouri stumbled out with his arm around Miss Peachtree 1984, Jack figured he 
had put at least a couple more votes in Hartmann's pocket.
Sometimes it was easy. For some reason politicians often crumbled around 
celebrities--even, Jack thought, famous traitor aces and washed-up TV Tarzans 
like himself. Faded Hollywood charisma, combined with cheap sex, could sap the 
will of even the most hardened politico.
That, of course, combined with the unvoiced threat of blackmail. Devaughn, Jack 
knew, would be delighted.
A kettledrum boomed in Jack's hollow skull. He massaged his temples as he waited 
at a red light. The wild card's gift of enormous strength and eternal youth 
hadn't saved him from a hangover.
At least it hadn't been a Hollywood party. He would have had to provide a party 
bowl of cocaine.-
He reached into his Marks & Spencer bush jacket and got the first Camel 
Unfiltered of the day. As he bent over to shield the match in his big hands, he 
saw the Impala heading down the street toward him again, swastika flag 
fluttering. The flat caps of the storm troopers were silhouetted in the front 
window. The car increased speed as the light went yellow.
WHITE POWER. Bumper-sticker slogans. AUSLANDER RAUS!
Jack remembered, years ago, picking up a Mercedes staff car full of Peronistas 
and flipping it onto its top.
He remembered screaming in anger as German machine guns turned the Rapido River 
to white froth, the way his arms ached as he drove the sinking rubber raft 
across to the north bank where the brush was already full of the black helmets 
and cammo ponchos of SS Division Das Reich, the shells called by the spotters at 
Monte Cassino splashing down everywhere, half his squad dead or wounded, bodies 
sprawled on the bottom of his boat in a mixture of river spray and their own 
blood... .
The hell, Jack thought, with politics.
All he had to do was step out in front of the Impala. He could make sure the 
impact pushed him under the car, and while he was underneath he could rip out 
the engine supports and leave the Brownshirts stranded in downtown Atlanta, 
surrounded by militant jokers, a large urban black population, and all the 
crazed and potentially violent lunatics attracted by the madness and confusion 
of the 1988 Democratic Convention.
Jack tossed away his match and swung one foot off the curb. The Impala sped 
closer, trying to beat the yellow light. Jack stepped back and watched as the 
Nazis raced by in their car. The black swastika burned itself into his eyeballs.
The Four Aces had been dead for almost forty years. Jack just didn't do that 
sort of thing anymore.
Too bad. 

8:00 A.M.
U2 blared from the radio, and the teenager beat out the rhythm line with a fork 
as he sucked down a glass of orange juice. His blood-red hair had been cut into 
a brush over the round skull, with a long skinny braid hanging down the black 
leather jacket. High-top black tennis shoes, fatigue pants completed his 
ensemble. The image was aggressively punk, but the face beneath the shock of red 
hair was too soft, too young for real bad-ass punk.
The contrast to his grandsire, who stood in front of the television, was 
startling. Dr. Tachyon, eyes slitted with interest as he listened to Jane Pauley 
of Today interview a panel of political pundits, had his violin tucked beneath 
his sharp chin and was busily sawing through a Paganini violin sonata. He was 
hearing perhaps one word in three, but it didn't matter. He had heard it all. So 
many many times before. As the months of campaigning ground down to this 
place-Atlanta. This timeJuly 1988. One man-Gregg Hartmann. One prize-the 
presidency of the United States of America.
Tachyon turned to Blaise, gestured toward the television with his bow. "It is 
going to be a desperate battle."
And as if in preparation for that upcoming battle, the alien had dressed in 
boots and breeches, with a black stock wrapped about the high lace collar of his 
shirt. An officer in Napoleon's Army could not have been more of a peacock than 
the slim, diminutive figure in his shimmering green outfit. On his breast in 
lieu of a Garter order hung a plastic ID card indicating that the bearer was one 
of the press contingent from the Jokertown Cry.
Blaise pulled a face and took a big bite out of a croissant. "Boring."
"Blaise, you are thirteen. Old enough to leave behind childish matters and take 
an interest in the larger world. On Takis you would be leaving the women's 
quarters. Preparing for your intensive education. Taking responsibility within 
the family. "
"Yeah, but we're not on Takis, and I'm not a joker, so I don't care a fuck."
"What did you say?" asked his grandsire in freezing accents.
"Fuck, you know, fuck. Anglo-Saxon word-"
"Crudity is never the mark of a gentlemen."
"You say it."
"Rarely. And please do as I say, not as I do." But Tachyon had the grace to grin 
sheepishly. "But child, jokers or not, we must care. We too are unique 
individuals, and if Barnett and his philosophy of oppression were to reach the 
White House it would devour us as well as the most miserable inhabitant of 
Jokertown. He wishes to place us in sanatoriums." Tachyon gave a snort of 
derision. "Why doesn't he just say the ugly word-concentration camps."
"We are aliens, Blaise. You may have been born on Earth, but my blood runs in 
your veins. You bear my power, and it will set you forever apart from the 
groundlings. For a time that natural tendency of all species to cling to the us 
and shun the them has lain quiet in the human spirit, but that could change--"
Blaise was yawning. Tachyon closed his teeth on the endless flow of words. He 
was becoming a bore. Blaise was young. The young were always callous and 
optimistic. But Tach had little room for optimism in his life. Ever since that 
desperate night in June 1987, Tachyon had carried in his DNA the twisting, 
mutating pattern of the wild card virus. For the moment it lay dormant, but 
Tachyon knew that an instant of stress, extreme pain, terror, even joy could 
trigger the virus, and if he were not fortunate enough to draw the black queen 
and die, he too might become a joker. It was too much to hope that he would fall 
into that lucky minority who became aces. There was a tap on the door of the 
suite. Brows arching in surprise, the alien sent Blaise to answer while he 
reeased the violin.
"George!"
Tachyon stood tensely in the door to the sitting room, gripping the jamb so he 
didn't release the furious anger and fear that held him. "What are you doing 
here?" he asked in a low, controlled tone.
George Steele, a.k.a. Victor Demyenov, a.k.a. Georgy Vladimirovich Polyakov, met 
the alien's thinly veiled hostility with a bland raise of the eyebrows. "Where 
else would I be?"
The boy released his tight embrace on the portly older man, and George kissed 
him loudly on each cheek. "I work for the Brighton Beach Observer. 'I have a 
story to cover."
"Oh, ideal, you're a goddamn Russian spy in a hotel that's crawling with Secret 
Service agents. And you're in my suite!" Tachyon suddenly pressed a hand to his 
heart, quieted his breathing, became aware of Blaise listening interestedly. "Go 
downstairs, and ... and ..." He dug out his wallet. "And buy a magazine."
"I don't want to."
"For once in your life don't argue with me!"
"Why can't I stay?" The whine was in place.
"You're only a boy. You shouldn't be involved in this."
"A minute ago I was old enough to take an adult interest in adult matters."
"Ancestors!" Tachyon dropped onto the sofa, held his head in his hands.
Polyakov allowed himself a small smile. "Perhaps your grandpapa is right ... and 
this will be boring, Blaise, my child." He dropped a companionable arm over the 
boy's shoulders and urged him to the door. "Go and amuse yourself while your 
grandpapa and I discuss darker matters."
"And stay out of trouble." Tach yelled as the door closed on Blaise's heels.
The alien smeared jam on a croissant. Stared at it. Dropped it back onto the 
plate. "Why can you handle him better than I can?"
"You try to love him. I don't think Blaise responds well to love."
"I don't want to believe that. But what are these dark matters we must discuss?"
Polyakov dropped into a chair, worried his lower lip between thumb and 
forefinger. "This convention is critical-"
"No joke? No pun intended."
"Shut up and listen!" And suddenly the voice held all the old steel and command 
it had possessed those long years ago when Victor Demyenov had picked a drunken 
and shattered Takisian out of the gutters of Hamburg and trained him in the 
delicate tradecraft of the modern spy. "I need you to do a job for me."
Tachyon backed away, palms out. "No. No more jobs. I've already given you more 
than I should. Let you back into my life, close to my grandson. What more do you 
want?"
"Plenty, and I deserve it. You owe me, Dancer. Your omission in London cost me 
my life, my country. You made me an exile -"
"Just another something we have in common," said Tachyon bitterly.
"Yes. And that boy." Polyakov gestured toward the door. "And a past that cannot 
be erased."
There was again that nervous worrying of lips between fingers. Tachyon cocked 
his head curiously, and firmly suppressed a desire to slip beneath the layers of 
that secretive mind. Takisian protocol dictated that one did not invade the 
privacy of a friend's mind. And there was enough friendship left from those 
years in East and West Berlin to dictate that courtesy. But Tach had never in 
all the years seen Polyakov so rattled, so jumpy. The alien found himself 
remembering incidents from the past year: late nights of drinking after Blaise 
had gone to bed; Polyakov providing an exuberant and uncritical audience as Tach 
and Blaise had charged through a Brahms Hungarian dance for piano and violin; 
the times that the Russian had kept Blaise from exercising his terrible power on 
the helpless humans who surrounded him.
Tachyon crossed the room, squatted before the old man, rested his arm on 
Polyakov's knee for balance. "For once in your life don't play the enigmatic 
Russian. Tell me plainly what you want. What you fear."
Polyakov suddenly gripped Tachyon's right hand. PAIN! The bite of fire from 
within, rushing up his arm, through his body, boiling the blood. Sweat burst 
from his pores, tears from his eyes. Tach sprawled on his elbows on the floor.
"BURNING SKY!"
"An appropriate exclamation," said Polyakov with a humorless smile. "You 
Takisians, always so apt."
Tachyon scrubbed a handkerchief across his streaming face, but the tears 
continued to flow. He gulped down a sob. The Russian frowned down at him. "What 
the devil is wrong with you?"
"You couldn't just tell me you are an ace?" cried Tach bitterly.
Polyakov shrugged. Rose and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. 
Tachyon's fingers were closed frenziedly about the sodden mass of his own.
"What the hell is the matter? I gave you only the merest lick of my fire."
"And I am carrying the wild card so your little lick could have triggered the 
virus."
Tachyon found himself crushed into a burly embrace. He fought free, gave his 
nose a hard blow. "So today is a day for secrets, is it not?"
"How long?"
"A year."
"If I had known-"
"I know. I know, you would never have scared me out of a thousand years of life 
with that little demonstration." His clothes smelled rankly of sweat and fear. 
Tachyon began to strip. "So now I know why you are so interested in this 
convention."
"It goes beyond the fact that I am a wild card," grunted Polyakov. "I am a 
Russian."
"Yes," Tach threw over his shoulder as he walked into the bathroom. "I know." 
The thunder of the water drowned out Polyakov's words. "WHAT?"
Grumbling, Polyakov followed him into the bathroom, lowered the toilet cover, 
and sat. From behind the shrouding curtain Tach heard the clink of metal on 
glass.
"What are you drinking?"
"What do you think?"
"I'll take one, too."
"It's eight in the morning."
"So we'll go to hell drunk and together." Tach accepted the glass, allowed the 
water to beat on his shoulders while he sipped at the vodka. "You drink too 
much."
"We both drink too much."
"True."
"There's an ace at this convention."
"There are a shitload of aces at this convention."
"A secret ace."
"Yes, he's sitting on my toilet." Tachyon stuck his head around the curtain. 
"How long is this going to take? Can't you be a little less cautious and trust 
me just a little?"
Polyakov sighed heavily, stared down at his hands as if counting the hairs on 
the back of fingers. "Hartmann is an ace." Tach stuck his head back through the 
shower curtain. "Nonsense."
"I tell you it is true."
"Proof?"
"Suspicions."
"Not good enough." Tach shut off the water, and thrust a hand through the 
curtain. "Towel." Polyakov dropped one over his arm.
Stepping from the shower, the alien studied his image in the mirror as he towel 
dried his shoulder-length red hair. Noted the scars on his left arm and hand 
where the doctors had repaired the bones crushed in an eleventh-hour rescue of 
Angelface. The puckered scar on his thigh-legacy of a terrorist's bullet in 
Paris. The long scar on the right bicepmemory of a duel with his cousin. "Living 
takes a hell of a toll, doesn't it?"
"Just how old are you?" the Russian asked curiously. "Adjusting for Earth's 
rotational period; eighty-nine, ninety. Somewhere in there."
"I was young when I met you."
"Yes."
"Now I am old and fat and in the grip of a terrible fear. You can so easily 
establish if my fears are real or mere delusions. Probe Hartmann, read him, then 
act."
"Gregg Hartmann is my friend. I don't probe my friends. I don't even probe you."
"I give you permission to do so. If it will help to convince you. "
"Ideal, you must be in terror."
"I am. Hartmann is ... evil."
"Odd word from an old material dialectician like yourself."
"Nevertheless, it applies."
Tachyon shook his head, walked into the bedroom, rummaged in a drawer for fresh 
underwear. He could sense George behind him, a portly irritating presence. "I 
don't believe you."
"No, you don't want to believe me. A fundamental difference. How much do you 
know of Hartmann's early life? His passage through this world has left a trail 
of mysterious deaths and shattered lives. His high school football coach, his 
college roommate-"
"So he's had the misfortune to be on the periphery of violent events. That does 
not make him an ace. Or would you have him damned by association?"
"And what of a politician who is kidnapped twice, and escapes both times under 
mysterious circumstances?"
"What's so mysterious? In Syria, Kahina turned upon her brother and stabbed him. 
In the resulting chaos we escaped. In Germany-"
"I was working with Kahina." "What!"
"When I first came to America. Gimli too, that poor fool. Now Gimli is dead, and 
Kahina has vanished, and I fear she too is dead. She came to America to expose 
Gregg Hartmann."
"So you say."
"Tachyon, I don't lie to you."
"No, you merely tell me only as much as suits you."
"Gimli suspected, and now he's dead."
"Oh, so now Gregg is responsible for Typhoid Croyd? Gimli died from that virus, 
not from Gregg Hartmann."
"And Kahina?"
"Show me a body. Show me the proof."
"What about Germany?"
"What about it?"
"One- of the GRU's top operatives was in charge of that operation, and he ran 
like a raw recruit. He was manipulated, I tell you!"
"You tell me! You tell me? You tell me nothing! Just slurs and innuendos. 
Nothing to back up this fantastic allegation."
"What does it cost you to probe him? Read him and prove me wrong." Tachyon's 
mouth tightened mulishly.
"You're afraid. You're afraid that what I'm telling you is true. This is not 
Takisian honor and reticence. This is cowardice. "
"There are very few men who would be permitted to say that to me, and live." 
Tachyon shrugged on his shirt, and resumed in a dry, almost lecturing, tone, 
"Being an ace you must have considered the political climate. Supposing for the 
moment that you are correct and Gregg Hartmann is a secret ace so what? There is 
nothing very suspicious in a man with political aspirations hiding his wild 
card. This is not France, where it is the height of chic to be an ace. You damn 
him for keeping a secret that you have kept all your life?"
"He's a killer, Tachyon, I know it. That's why he is hiding."
"The hounds are gathering, George. They're snapping at our heels. Soon they will 
want to taste blood. Gregg Hartmann is our only hope to keep the hate at bay. If 
we smear Hartmann, we open the way for Barnett and the crazies. You'll be all 
right. You can hide behind that bland, ordinary face. But what of the others? 
What of my bastard stepchildren waiting in the park, their deformities obvious 
for all the world to see? What do I tell them? That the man who has protected 
and defended them for twenty years is evil and must be destroyed because he 
might be an ace, and because he kept it secret?"
Tachyon's eyes widened as he considered a new possibility. "My god, this might 
be why you were sent here. To bring down the candidate that the Kremlin fears. A 
Hartmann presidency-"
"What is this nonsense? Have you taken to reading sensational spy fiction? I 
fled for my life. Even the Kremlin thinks I'm dead."
"How can I believe you? Why should I trust you?"
"Only you can answer those questions. Nothing I say or do will convince you. 
I'll say only one thing-I would hope that this past year would have at least 
demonstrated that I am not your enemy."
Polyakov walked to the door. "That's it?"
"It seems pointless to continue a circular argument."
"You waltz in here, and calmly announce that Gregg Hartmann is a killer ace, and 
then waltz back out again?"
"I've given you all that I have. Now it's up to you, Dancer." He seemed to 
struggle with himself for a moment, then added, "But if you don't act, be 
warned-I shall."
After Jack crossed the street, he realized he didn't have to deal with the July 
heat any longer: he could get back to the Marriott by way of Peachtree Mall. The 
conditioned air was a relief. He rode the escalator to the top level and came 
face to face with a group of Charismatic Catholics for Barnett, all walking 
circles, counting their rosaries, and chanting the Hail Mary while wearing 
posterboards with their candidate's picture. STOP WILD CARD VIOLENCE, some signs 
said. This week's cover slogan for Put wild cards in concentration camps.
Weird, Jack thought. Barnett professed the Roman Church a tool of Satan, and 
here they were praying for him.
He passed by. Sweat cooled on his forehead. Two black kids loaded with Jesse 
Jackson buttons were throwing large foam-plastic gliders back and forth. 
Delegates in silly hats mobbed the restaurants, looking for breakfast.
One of the gliders fluttered toward Jack, heading for the pavement. Jack grinned 
and snatched it from the air before it hit the floor. He cocked his arm to throw 
it back to its owner, and then stopped and stared at the glider in surprise.
The foam glider had been created in the image of Peregrine, her wings outspread 
to almost two feet. The famous bosom, which Jack had gazed at on many memorable 
occasions aboard the Stacked Deck, was rendered in loving detail. Only the tail 
structure, presumably required for proper aerodynamics, was nonanatomical. Small 
letters were printed on the tail: Flying Ace Gliders (R), they said, collect 
them all.
Jack wondered if Peregrine was getting any royalties. The two kids stood about 
fifteen yards away, waiting for their glider. Jack cocked his hand back and 
threw, the same motion he'd used playing football years ago, and added just a 
touch of his power. A mild golden aura flickered from his body. The glider fired 
in a fast, straight line, the length of the mall, buzzing like an insect in 
flight.
The kids stared, first at the glider, then at Jack, then at the glider again. 
Then they took o$; running after their Peregrine.
People were staring. Jack felt a delirious rise of optimism. Maybe returning to 
public life wasn't going to be so bad. He laughed and loped up the mall again.
On the way he met the glider-seller, his samples assembled on a folding table in 
front of him. Jack recognized J. J. Flash and Jetboy's JB-I. There was one 
Frisbee-like object obviously intended as the Turtle.
Jack showed his ID and room key to the police cordoning off the Marriott and 
walked into the cavernous venturi shape of the atrium. The Marriott was Hartmann 
headquarters, and almost all the people in sight were wearing Hartmann regalia. 
Flying Ace gliders, thrown from the balconies above, swooped in daring loops 
above their heads. Off out of sight, someone was playing charge on a portable 
organ.
Jack stepped to the desk to see if anyone had left any messages. Charles 
Devaughn wanted him to call; so did one of the Georgia starlets. Which one, Jack 
tried to recall, was Bobbie? The stacked redhead? Or was it the blonde chain 
gang woman who spent half the party talking about her expensive dental implants 
and demonstrating her anticellulite exercises?
There wasn't likely to be any time at this convention for a personal life 
anyway.
Jack put the messages in his pocket and turned away from the desk. A Flying Ace 
glider spun into the ground before his feet. He automatically reached down to 
pick it up, saw the molded white scarf, flyer's helmet, leather jacket.
Jack stared for a long moment, the glider hanging from his hand. Hello, Earl, he 
thought.
For a while he'd thought it would really be okay. He'd reached a truce with 
Tachyon; maybe Gregg Hartmann could talk old diehards like Hiram Worchester 
around. Maybe everyone else had forgotten the Four Aces, and HUAC, and Jack's 
betrayal; maybe he could step out in public and do something worthwhile without 
messing up, without being haunted by reminders of the past.
Better straighten up, farm boy. Funny how after all these years he still knew 
exactly what Earl Sanderson would say. Jack rose to his full height and looked 
over the heads of the crowd, wondering if someone out there had meant the glider 
to fall where it did, wanted to remind him that everything hadn't been 
forgotten. Jack must have looked ridiculous enough, heaven knows, hunched over 
the glider with his guilty conscience welling out of his face, and the effigy of 
his friend and victim dangling from his paw.
Bye, Earl, he thought. Take care, now.
He cocked his arm back and fired. The glider whirred as it rose into the atrium, 
rising forever until it was lost to sight.
Gregg could feel the hunger.
It had nothing to do with politics or the expectation that by the end of this 
week he could well be the Democratic nominee.
Coming down in the Marriott elevator for his breakfast meeting with Jack Braun 
and Hiram Worchester, the hunger burned in his gut like glowing phosphorus-a 
pulsing violence that a few croissants and coffee would never touch.
The hunger was Puppetman's, and it demanded pain. His face must have reflected 
some of the inner struggle. His aide, Amy Sorenson, leaned toward him and 
touched his shoulder hesitantly. "Sir ... ?"
Billy Ray, assigned to Hartmann's personal security for the convention, glanced 
over the shoulder of his spotless white Carnifex uniform from the front of the 
elevator. Gregg forced a yawn and a professional smile. "Just tired, Amy. That's 
all. It's been a long campaign and, by god, it'll be a longer week. Give me a 
few cups of coffee and I'll be fine. Ready to face the hordes." Amy grinned; 
Billy Ray returned his solemn attention to the door, ignoring the view of the 
Marriott Marquis's immense and surreal lobby.
"Ellen wasn't having trouble, was she?"
"No, no." Gregg watched the lobby floor rise toward them. A large foam glider 
spiraled lazily past them toward the crowded restaurant below. As the elevator 
passed it in midflight, Gregg could see that the body was that of a woman with 
bird-shaped wings. The features looked suspiciously like Peregrine's. Now that 
he'd noticed the first one, Gregg saw that there were several more of the 
gliders performing acrobatics above the lobby. "She hasn't had morning sickness 
since the first trimester. We're both fine. Just tired."
"You've never told me-do you want a boy or a girl?"
"It doesn't matter. As long as it's healthy."
The floor indicators flickered down. Gregg's ears popped with the pressure 
change. Inside, Puppetman snarled. You're not fine. Give me a few cups of coffee 
.. The presence radiated disgust. Do you know how long I've been waiting? Do you 
know how long it's been?
Be quiet. We can't do anything about it now.
Then it had better be soon. Soon, do you hear me, Greggie?
Gregg forced the power back into its mental cage. The effort cost him. Puppetman 
struggled, its anger a rasping, continual presence. Shaking the bars.
Lately, it was always shaking the bars.
The problem had only begun in the last few months. At first it was rare, 
something he thought of as some strange fluke, a quirk attributed to the 
weariness of a long campaign. But it had happened more and more often.
A mental wall would slam up between Puppetman and his victims. just as he was 
about to feed on those dark and violent emotions, he would be cut off, pushed 
back by some outside force. Puppetman would howl as the link to the puppet was 
severed.
He'd prayed that problem would disappear; instead, it worsened. For the past two 
weeks the block had reared up every time Puppetman had tried to feed. Lately, 
he'd begun to sense a mocking laughter riding with the interference, a faint, 
whispering voice just on the edge of recognition.
The power inside Gregg was becoming desperate and uncontrollable. And Gregg was 
afraid the internal struggle was beginning to show.
Make me wait much longer and I'll show you the real puppet. I'll give you a 
goddamn graphic demonstration of which one of us is in control.
The power slipped loose of Gregg's hold for a moment, defiant. Gregg willed it 
to be silent, but still it screamed at him as he set the mental bars around it 
once more. Puppetman gibbered and spat. You're the fucking puppet, do you hear! 
I'll make you crawl! Understand? You need it as much as I do. If I die, you die. 
You have nothing without me.
Gregg was sweating with the effort, but he won. He closed his eyes and leaned 
back as the elevator lurched to a halt at the ground floor. Puppetman lapsed 
into brooding silence inside; Amy watched him with concern.
The doors opened, and the coolness and noise of the lobby hit them. Some of the 
crowd in the lobby, most of them sporting Hartmann buttons and hats, had spotted 
him-there were screams and a rush toward him. Waiting Secret Service men stepped 
smoothly between them, cutting off the supporters; Gregg waved and smiled. They 
began to chant: "Hartmann! Hartmann!" The lobby echoed with it.
Amy shook her head. "What a circus, huh?"
Ray ushered Gregg toward the private room where he was to meet Hiram and Braun, 
and then took his station just outside. Gregg went in. The air-conditioning here 
was more oppressive than the lobby's. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Only 
Jack-Golden Boy-was present, a handsome, tall man who looked as if he hadn't 
aged a day in the four decades since the heyday of the Four Aces, still the 
image of the movie star he'd once been. He rose to greet Gregg. Braun seemed 
subdued, which didn't surprise Gregg. He hadn't figured Jack would much care for 
the attempt at reconciliation. Frankly, he didn't give a shit whether Jack was 
happy with it or notGregg was going to make the two of them bury this particular 
hatchet; publicly, at least.
"Senator, Amy," Braun said. His eyes lingered a bit too long on Amy. Which also 
hardly surprised Gregg; he knew they were having an affair. Puppetman knew lots 
of hidden things. "Good morning. How's Ellen?"
"Getting bigger each day," Gregg replied. "And tired a lot. Like all of us."
"I know what you mean. Ready to begin the good fight?"
"I thought we'd already begun, Jack," Gregg commented. His voice sounded glum 
and irritable against Braun's heartiness. He made himself smile.
Braun glanced at Gregg strangely, but he laughed. "I suppose so. You know 
Californians: it's bad enough everyone was a little jet-lagged. I was up most of 
the night with your uncommitted superdelegates. I think we have things worked 
out. Listen, I thought you said Worchester was going to be here."
"You haven't seen him this morning?" Gregg frowned, irritated.
"Not yet. And it isn't exactly like him to pass up a meal-though he'll probably 
bring his own in since I hear even the Bello Mondo isn't up to his standards." A 
grimace and shrug. "Hey, I know the reason you wanted this breakfast meeting was 
to get the two of us to patch up our differences, and I appreciate the 
sentiment-I'd like it, too. But maybe Hiram isn't quite as forgiving as you 
think."
"I don't believe that, Jack."
Jack gave Gregg a lopsided, bitter smile. "He's never served you a plate of 
thirty silver dimes, either."
"Amy ..."Gregg began.
"Already gone, sir," his aide said. "I'll find him or starve trying. Save me a 
roll, okay?"
As she left the room, Gregg turned to Braun. "Okay, we'll go ahead and eat. If 
Hiram shows, he shows." The words snapped out more sharply than Gregg intended. 
He was in no mood for games, not with Puppetman slamming against his restraints. 
Braun was looking at him strangely again, but before the ace could say anything, 
Gregg shook his head and waved the anger away. "God, that sounded horrible, 
Jack. I'm sorry. I'm just not myself this morning. Point me in the direction of 
the coffeepot, would you?"
Strange, Jack thought. He'd never felt uncomfortable in the presence of Gregg 
Hartmann before. Yet here he was, face to face with the man he hoped would be 
the next president, the man who had talked him into coming out of his public 
isolation and joining his crusade for office, and something was missing..
I'm tired, thought Jack. So is Gregg. No one can be charismatic every minute.
He poured himself coffee. The cup rattled in the saucerhangover, maybe, or 
nerves. If it hadn't been Gregg asking for this meeting, he wouldn't have come. 
"I saw a car full of Nazis outside," he said. "Nazis in uniforms."
"The Klan are here, too." Hartmann shook his head. "There's potential for a 
serious confrontation. The crackpot right likes that kind of thing-it gives them 
publicity."
"Lucky thing the Turtle is here."
"Yes." Hartmann gave him a look. "You've never met the Turtle, have you?"
Jack held up a hand. "Please." He smiled to cover his nervousness. "Let's keep 
it down to one reconciliation a day, okay?"
Hartmann knit his brows. "Is there a problem between you?"
Jack shrugged. "Not that I know of. I just ... sort of assume there would be."
Hartmann stepped toward Jack, put a hand on his shoulder. There was concern in 
his eyes.
"You assume too much, Jack. You think everyone's got a chip on his shoulder 
about your past, and it's just not true. You've got to let down the defenses, 
let people get to know you."
Jack stared at the coffee swirling in his cup and thought about Earl Sanderson 
spiraling to a crash landing at his feet. "Okay, Gregg," he said, "I'll try."
"You're important to this campaign, Jack. You're head of the California 
delegation. I wouldn't have chosen you if you weren't suited for the job."
"You could get some heat on account of me. I've told you that. "
"You're important, Jack. You're a symbol of something bad that happened a long 
time ago, something we're trying to prevent from happening again. The other Four 
Aces were victims, but so were you. They paid with prison or exile or their 
lives, but you ..." Hartmann gave his boyish, halfapologetic smile. "Maybe you 
paid with your self-respect. Who's to say that isn't worth more in the long run? 
Their agony ended, but yours hasn't. I think it all balanced long ago, that 
everyone's paid too much." He squeezed Jack's shoulder. "We need you. You're 
important to us. I'm glad you're aboard."
Jack stared at Hartmann, cynicism ringing in his mind like funeral bells. Was 
Gregg serious-lives and sanity and prison terms balanced against his own 
worthless loss of dignity?
Hartmann had to be laughing behind that sincere expression, making fun of him.
Jack shook his head. From the time he'd met him aboard the Stacked Deck, 
Hartmann had been a man who could make Jack feel good about himself. What he was 
saying now wasn't substantially different from what he'd said to Jack before. 
But now the message seemed the reflex posturing of a politician, not the message 
of a concerned friend.
"Is something wrong, Gregg?" Jack blurted.
Hartmann dropped his hand, turned partly away. "Sorry," he said. "Things have 
been a little strained."
"You need some rest."
"Guess we all do." Hartmann cleared his throat. "Charles said you did some good 
work for us last night."
"I got some congressmen drunk and laid, is all." Hartmann gave a laugh. "Charles 
has given me their names and room numbers. I'll be phoning them as soon as we've 
finished breakfast. Perhaps-"
The door opened. Jack jumped, spilling coffee. He turned and saw, not Hiram 
Worchester, but Amy. Embarrassed at his nervousness, Jack reached for a napkin.
"Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just got a phone call from Furs in Jokertown. 
It's a potential problem. Chrysalis has just been found dead in New York. Ace 
abilities were involved."
Surprise stumbled into Jack's mind. He'd spent months with Chrysalis aboard the 
Stacked Deck, and although he'd never been comfortable around her-the organs and 
muscle visible through the transparent flesh reminded Jack of too many things 
he'd seen in World War II and Korea he'd developed an abstract admiration for 
the way Chrysalis handled her deformity, the cultured accent, cigarette holder, 
antique playing cards, and dry style.
Hartmann's face went rigid. When the candidate spoke, his voice was strained. 
"Any more details?"
"Beaten to death, looks like." Amy pursed her lips. "Barnett can make some 
propaganda out of this-it's more `wild card violence' that will have to be 
restrained."
"I knew her well," Hartmann said tightly. The mask-like face seemed unusual in a 
man who was so open around his friends. Jack wondered if there were aspects to 
this death he hadn't known about.
"Tony Calderone checked in late last night," Amy said. "Maybe you should get him 
preparing a statement in case Barnett tries to use this."
Hartmann gave a sigh. "Yes. I'll have to do that." He turned to Jack. "Jack, I'm 
afraid I'm going to have to abandon you."
"Should I leave?"
Concern entered Hartmann's eyes again as he looked at Jack. "I would appreciate 
it very much if you'd stay. You and Hiram Worchester are two of my most visible 
supporters-if you could settle your differences, it would mean a lot to me." 
Jack thought for a moment, wondering if Judas and St. Paul ever settled their 
differences.
He sighed. It had to happen sooner or later. "I don't have a problem with 
Worchester, Gregg. He's just got one with me."
Hartmann smiled. "Good," he said. He raised a hand and squeezed Jack's shoulder 
again.
The room seemed very empty after Hartmann and Amy left. Jack watched breakfast 
turn cold on the buffet.
Earl's glider crashed again and again in his mind.

9:00 A.M.
"Sara," Ricky Barnes said, "you've got to get off this Hartmann thing. It's 
making you crazy. You're acting obsessive/compulsive."
They sat at a round table covered in green-checked oilcloth near Le Peep's front 
window. Outside, a clot of farm-state delegates in loud ties floated down the 
tiled rectilinear intestine of Peachtree Center, headed for the Hyatt lobby. 
More delegates vied with ferns for elbow room around them, trying to fortify 
themselves on lightweight New Egg Cuisine. It was that, fast food, or hotel 
restaurants, which had waiting lists past the turn of the century.
"Rolling Stone says that's the disease of the Eighties," Sara Morgenstern said, 
dissecting her omelet with her fork. Her winter-pale hair was swept from the 
left side of her head to the right today. She wore a simple pink dress that came 
to the tops of her crossed knees. Her stockings were sheer black, her shoes 
wedge-soled and white.
Barnes took a bite of his own tofu and spinach omelet. The coat of his severe 
black two-piece was draped over his hooped chairback. With his suspenders and 
white shirt he might have passed for an Inherit the Wind epoch Southern 
Methodist minister, except for his gold-wire yuppie granny glasses. "It's 
getting a lot of competition from AIDS," he said. "But seriously, you're a long 
way off your usual Jokertown beat; your Washington desk is handling everything 
that comes out of Atlanta this week, and they won't be as indulgent of your 
little foibles as the New York bureau is. Senator Gregg's the Post's special 
pet. It's as if Katie Graham invented him. They're not going to be happy with 
you throwing rocks at him."
"We're journalists, Ricky," she said, leaning forward, reaching as if to touch 
the hand resting beside his plate. The white fingers stopped millimeters short 
of the milk-chocolate ones. Ricky didn't react. He was an old friend, who'd 
taken a journalism seminar from her at Columbia a few years back, and knew her 
reticence had nothing to do with his race. "We have to report the truth."
Ricky shook his long and neatly groomed head. "Sara, Sara. You're not that 
naive. We report what the owners want or what our peers want. If the truth 
happens to fall inconveniently in between, it doesn't have much constituency. 
Besides, what is truth, as the man who washed his hands asked?"
"The truth is that Gregg Hartmann is a murderer and a monster. And I'm going to 
expose him."
When Hiram Worchester shambled into the room, Jack gave a start and reflexively 
began to rise from his chair before deciding not to. He settled back into the 
chair with his coffee and cigarette. He and Hiram had been on the Stacked Deck 
together; even if they hadn't been friends, there was no need for formality.
Hiram looked as if he hadn't slept. He headed wordlessly for the buffet, took a 
plate, began to fill it.
Jack felt perspiration speckling his scalp. His heart seemed to change rhythms 
every few seconds. Why the hell, he demanded of himself, was he so nervous? He 
took a long drag on his Camel.
Hiram kept filling his plate. Jack began to wonder if his wild card had suddenly 
run to invisibility.
Hiram turned, chewing a cruller as if he wasn't really tasting it, and took a 
seat opposite Jack. On the Stacked Deck he had used his control of gravity to 
remove a lot of his weight, something that made him oddly agile. He didn't seem 
to be doing that now. He looked at Jack out of dull, marble eyes. "Braun," he 
said. "This meeting wasn't my idea."
"Mine either."
"You were a hero of mine, you know. When I was young." We all have to grow up 
sometime, Jack thought, but decided against saying it. Let the man have his 
moment. "I've never made any claims to heroism myself," Hiram spoke on. Jack had 
the feeling it was a speech he'd been working on for some time. "I'm a fat man 
who runs a restaurant. I've never been on the cover of Life or starred in a 
feature film. But whatever else, I'm loyal to my friends." Good for you, chum. 
This time Jack almost said it. But he thought of Earl Sanderson fluttering to 
the floor of the Marriott and instead said nothing.
He blinked sweat out of his eyes. Why am I doing this to myself? he thought.
Hiram spoke on, robot-like. "Gregg tells me you did good work in California. He 
says we might have lost without all the celebrity support and money that ou 
organized. I'm grateful for that, but gratitude is one thing' and trust is 
another."
"I wouldn't trust anybody in politics, Worchester," Jack said. And then wondered 
if that piece of fashionable cynicism was true, because he did trust Gregg 
Hartmann, knew him for a genuinely good man, and he wanted the man to win more 
than he had wanted anything in thirty years.
"It's important that Gregg Hartmann win this election, Braun. Leo Barnett is the 
Nur-al-Allah in American dress. Remember Syria? Remember jokers stoned to death 
in the streets?" There was a weird gleam in Hiram's eyes. He raised a fist and 
clenched it, forgetting it contained half a cruller. "That's what's at stake 
here, Braun. They'll do anything to stop us. They'll bribe, smear, seduce us, 
resort to violence. And where will you be, Braun?" Loudly. "Where will you be 
when they really start turning the screws?"
Suddenly Jack's nervousness was gone. A cold anger hummed through him. He'd had 
quite enough.
"You ... weren't ... there," Jack said.
Hiram paused, then became aware of pastry dough ballooning out between the 
fingers of his upraised hand. "You ... weren't ... fucking ... there." The words 
grated slowly from a place inside Jack that seemed like a twilight graveyard, a 
place without warmth, an endless plain of autumn grass marked with gray stones 
that noted the passing of Earl, of Blythe, of Archibald Holmes, of all the young 
men he knew in the 5th Division, all those who died at the Rapido crossing, 
little stick figures scattered like so many handfuls of dust beneath the 
pounding guns of Cassino ...
Jack stood up and threw the cigarette away. "For someone who doesn't claim to be 
a hero, Worchester, you sure make a great speech. Maybe you should consider a 
career in politics."
With quick, vicious movements of the napkin, Hiram swabbed dough from his hand. 
"I told Gregg you can't be trusted. He told me you've changed."
"Could be he's right," Jack said. "Could be he's wrong. The question is, what 
can you do about it?"
Hiram threw the napkin away and rose massively to his feet, a pale mountain 
lumbering to battle. "I can do what I have to do!" he said sharply. "It's that 
important!"
Jack's lips skinned back from his teeth in a wolverine smile. "You don't know 
that. You haven't been tested. You haven't been there." He gave a stage laugh, 
Basil Rathbone standing on the parapet and mocking the peasants. "Everyone knows 
about me, Worchester, but nobody's put the screws to you vet. Nobody's asked you 
to betray your friends. You haven't been there, and you don't know what you're 
going to do till it happens." He smiled again. "Take my word for it."
Hiram seemed to wilt before Jack's smile. Then his color drained away, and to 
Jack's surprise the big man seemed to stagger back and fall. Springs burst in 
the chair as Hiram collapsed into it. He tugged at his collar as if he were 
choking, revealing a painful sore on his neck.
Jack stared in amazement. The granite mountain had melted into a marshmallow.
And suddenly Jack was very weary. A faint hangover residue throbbed in his 
temples. He didn't want to watch Hiram any more.
He headed for the exit.
He paused by the door. "I'm here for Gregg's sake," he said. "I guess it's the 
same for you. So let's tell Gregg we're the best of friends and do what we have 
to do. Okay?"
Hiram, still dragging at his collar, nodded.
Jack stepped into the corridor and closed the door of the suite behind him. He 
felt like the school bully picking on the class fat kid.
From down the corridor came the raucous cry of conventioneers on their first day 
in town. Jack headed toward it.

10:00 A.M.
Gregg was tired of talking to the delegates Jack had gotten laid the night 
before. He was tired of sounding enthusiastic. Alex James had been a puppet 
since the beginning of the campaign. Most of the extra secret service people 
assigned to Gregg had been uninteresting to Puppetman, too dutiful and without 
the hidden flaws on which he fed. But Alex ... he had slipped through the 
battery of psychological examinations and background checks. Like that of Billy 
Ray, Alex's soul was marbled with a delicious streak of sadism, tinted with the 
jade-green urge to flaunt and abuse his power. Left alone, he might have been 
only a little overzealous in his duties, a touch harsh when he moved people 
away, preferring to confront a situation rather than defusing it. No one would 
have noticed.
But Puppetman knew. Puppetman saw all the cracks in the veneer of a soul and he 
knew best how to make them gape wide open.
Gregg sat in the living room of his suite. The Zenith bolted to the wall cabinet 
was on, set to CBS and Dan Rather's coverage of the convention's opening. 
Cautiously, Gregg let down the bars that held Puppetman. The power surged out, 
searching for Alex's presence. Gregg had just seen the man in the hall outside, 
knew that Ray had just sent him to check the stairwells. There were often people 
on the stairs: lobbyists looking for a way to the candidate's floors, reporters, 
groupies, or just the curious. The chances were good that Alex would find 
someone. Puppetman reached out and curled into the familiar recesses of the 
guard's mind. This time, the power sighed. This time.
Be careful, Gregg warned him. Remember what's been happening lately. Go slowly.
Puppetman snarled in reply. Shut up! It's all right now. Everything's turning 
our way again. Chrysalis is finally taken care of. Oddity is going to find the 
jacket and we've sent Mackie after Downs. The convention's started well. I need 
this one. Cant you feel the hunger? Remember, if I go, you go down with me. I'll 
make damn sure of it.
With the threat, the power turned away, suddenly rapacious. Through Puppetman, 
Gregg could feel a surge of anticipation in Alex. He knew what that must 
mean-the guard had found someone. Gregg could imagine the scene: some nat kid, 
probably, dressed in stone-wash jeans, a T-shirt studded with oversized 
"Hartmann in '88" buttons, and a cheap J-town mask over his all-too-normal face. 
Alex would be staring, his hands a shade too close to the bulge under his sports 
jacket, barking orders.
Puppetman lanced into Alex's emotional matrix, thrusting aside the heavy blue 
layers of duty and the leather-brown binding of morality until he uncovered that 
orange-red core of psychotic brutality. Puppetman nurtured it, fanned it into 
flame. It flared easily into heat. Now .
(Alex would be shouting by this time, his neck corded, and his cheeks red with 
blood. He'd reach out, grab a fistful of the T-shirt, as campaign buttons 
rattled like tin pie plates, and shake the kid like a disobedient puppy. The 
mask would fall to the floor and crumple under Alex's Florsheims.)
...Yes. Puppetman could taste it, and Gregg tasted with him. There was raw fury 
there, a waiting feast. Puppetman leaned toward it hungrily, tweaking the 
emotions again, turning the settings just a little higher ...
(Alex's hand would come back, and the open palm would slash across the kid's 
cheek, snapping the head to one side. Blood would be drooling from a cut on the 
lip and the kid would be crying in fear and pain, suddenly terrified.)
... and it happened again. In Gregg's mind, the interference seemed like a cold, 
obsidian wall, cutting between himself and Alex and sending Puppetman reeling 
backward.
The power inside Gregg wailed in frustration and rage, hurling itself at the 
wall again and again and always being slammed back down. Gregg could hear the 
laughter behind the wall, and that faint voice.
Only this time, this time, he could hear the words. You're a fucking son of a 
bitch, Hartmann, but I finally got the way to take you down, don't I? I found 
your goddamn weakness, Greggie old friend. I found the fucking playmate inside 
you, the ace you used on me and Misha and Morgenstern and everyone else. Only 
now I can play with your ace the way you played with us. I can keep him away 
from the puppets; I can make him fucking starve, and then what happens to you, 
Senator? What happens to you when the power turns against you? The words faded, 
leaving behind a mocking chuckle.
And Gregg, with a rising horror, knew that he recognized that voice. He knew who 
was behind the wall, and the realization left him cold and shaking.
Gimli. It was Gimli.
You're dead, he shouted after the voice. You're deadyour stuffed skin is sitting 
in the Dime Museum; I saw it. Typhoid Croyd killed you.
Dead? The laughter came again. Do I sound dead to you, Hartmann? Ask the friend 
you keep locked up inside you if I'm real or not. No, not dead. Just changed. It 
took me a long time to get back ...
The voice faded and was gone. The wall vanished.
Puppetman screamed wordlessly at the place where it had been.
Let me out again, the power demanded. It's not too late, Alex .
No! Gregg looked at his hands; they were trembling on his lap. He could feel 
sweat running down the back of his shirt. Adrenaline pounded in his chest. He 
wanted to run, to scream himself. The ordinariness of the hotel room and the 
droning voice of Rather seemed to mock him.
He was very, very scared.
You have to let me out. There's no choice. No!
No choice, do you understand? The power leaped at him, spearing deep into 
Gregg's own will. Gregg gasped in surprise, and felt his own presence falling 
away. His hands clenched; he started to push himself off the couch. Like an 
automaton, Puppetman walked him stiff legged across the room. The muscles of 
Gregg's face were locked in a painful grimace, spasms rippled down his legs as 
he struggled to regain control. He watched, helpless, as his hand reached for 
the doorknob to the bedroom, twisted, and pushed.
God, no ...
"Gregg?" Ellen was reading on the bed, the book propped up against her swelling 
stomach. "Put your hand here; the baby's been giving me flutterings all 
morning." She turned to look at him, and her aristocratic, fine New England 
features went quizzical. "Gregg? Are you all right?"
He could feel his whole body quivering, balanced between Puppetman's will and 
his own. Each tugged on the strings of the body, trying to yank them from the 
grasp of the other. Even as Gregg made that visualization, Puppetman scoffed. 
We're both the same person, you know. I'm just your ace, your power. I'm doing 
what we need to do to survive. Ellen's here. Use her.
No! Not that way.
She's just another damn puppet. More pliable than most, in fact. Her pain is as 
good as anyone else's.
It's too risky. Not here, not now.
If not here and now, you stand to lose everything anyway. Do it!
Gregg felt his body take another stumbling step forward. His fist clenched and 
raised. There was definite fear in Ellen's eyes now. She closed the book, tried 
to struggle up from the bed. "Gregg, please, you're frightening me ..."
Gregg let go all his holds on the body, as if he were exhausted by the battle. 
Puppetman shouted in victory. Then, as his arm lifted for the first blow and 
Puppetman relaxed in anticipation, Gregg grappled with the power again. 
Surprised by the renewed onslaught, Puppetman was stripped of control. Ignoring 
its struggling and cursing, Gregg wrestled it deep, deeper than it had been in 
years, slamming and locking the mental cage, and then burying it far back in his 
mind. When he could no longer hear it, he stopped and came back to himself.
He was gasping alongside the bed. The hand was still upraised; Ellen cowering 
beneath. Gregg unclenched the fist, and brought it slowly down to her face as he 
sat next to her. He felt her draw back, then slowly relax as he began to stroke 
her hair.
"You don't have anything to be afraid of, darling," he said. He tried to laugh 
and heard pain instead. "Hey, I wouldn't hurt you, you know that. Not the mother 
of my child. I'd never hurt you."
"You looked so angry, so violent. For a second-"
"I'm not feeling well. It's nothing; stomach cramps. Nerves-I've been thinking 
about the convention. I took some Maalox. It'll pass."
"You scared me."
"I'm sorry, Ellen," he said, soothingly. "Please ." . With Puppetman, it would 
have been easy; he could have made her believe him without effort. But that 
power wasn't safe, not now. Ellen stared at him, and he thought she was going to 
say more, then she slowly nodded. "Okay," she said. "Okay, Gregg."
She snuggled against him. Gregg leaned back against the headboard. Through the 
faint tendrils of his ace ability, he could feel her relaxing, forgetting. Since 
she'd become pregnant, she'd become more inward focused; things outside were not 
as important. It was less threatening to accept his excuse, so she did. The 
realization eased his mind very little.
My god, what am I going to do?
He could hear Gimli's laughter. It pounded in his head. The phone by the bed 
rang. Gregg picked it up, thinking it might drive the dwarf away. "Hartmann."
"Senator?" The voice on the other end was breathless, agitated. "Amy. Bad news. 
The word is that we're in for a big fight tonight over the California 
delegation's credentials ..." ,He barely heard her over Gimli's roaring 
amusement.
Jack's hangover finally muted itself after two shots of vodka. He had spent the 
last hour in his suite, talking on his bank of telephones with Emil Rodriguez, 
his second-in-command, and trying to round up all his delegates and have them 
briefed for the platform fight that would come tomorrow. There was a knock. Jack 
told Rodriguez he'd call him back and opened the door. Amy Sorenson stood 
outside, carrying a pile of briefing papers in an envelope. Her chestnut hair 
was pinned up atop her head.
"Hi, Amy* " Jack kissed her warmly, then drew her inside and tried to kiss her 
again. She turned her head away.
"Not this time, Jack. This isn't like Buenos Aires. My husband's here."
Jack sighed. "You're on business, then."
Any stepped out of his arms and straightened her fetching blue suit. "Brace 
yourself," she said. "I've got bad news."
"I'm braced. I've been braced for months."
Amy's nose wrinkled at the appalling stench of tobacco, liquor, and the residue 
of perfume. She perched on the edge of a chair, then carefully pushed a 
cigar-filled ashtray as far away as she could. Jack pulled up a chair and sat on 
it backward, gazing at Amy over the chairback.
"What's up?"
"You're not going to like this at all. There's going to be a big credentials 
fight tonight over the California delegation." Jack stared at her.
"The Jackson people are gonna spring it on us. They're claiming that a 
winner-take-all primary is inherently discriminatory against minorities."
"Crap." Jack's reply was immediate. "The California primary's been a 
winner-take-all for as long as I can remember."
"The challenge gives everyone a chance to dismember our largest bloc of 
delegates, and do it in a righteous cause."
"We followed all the rules. We won the primary fair and square."
Amy looked exasperated. "The rules, Jack, are what the convention says they are. 
If they strip our delegates, they open the convention to a series of 
parliamentary and procedural battles that could unhinge everything. That's what 
Jackson, Gore, and Barnett want-if things get chaotic, it improves their chances 
of getting the nomination. If they can fuck us over and hand us a procedural 
defeat before the first ballot, they can hope to acquire defectors from our camp 
during the second ballot."
"Great. Just great." Funny how he just couldn't get used to women who used words 
like fuck. Hell, Jack couldn't get used to the way men used the word these days.
Some days more than others he felt like a relic.
"The showdown's all going to be about the rule books and who can manipulate them 
best. Who's the parliamentarian for your delegation?"
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair. " I guess I am."
"Do you know anything about parliamentary procedure?" Jack thought about it. 
"I've sat on a lot of corporate boards. You'd be surprised at some of the tricks 
they pull." Amy sighed. "Do you know Danny Logan? He's our campaign 
parliamentarian. I want you to take your instructions from him."
"When I last saw Logan, he was lying under a bar stool at LAX. "
Amy's eves flashed. She tossed her chestnut hair out of her eyes. "He'll be 
sober tonight, I promise you."
Jack thought for a moment. "Do we have the votes?"
"Can't tell. Dukakis is hedging, like always. The people who can save us are the 
superdelegates. Most of them are congressmen and senators who would do anything 
to prevent a bloodbath. They may vote for us just to keep things sane. And of 
course they know Gregg a lot better than they know the Duke and Jackson, let 
alone Barnett."
"This is all crazy."
"The Democrats haven't had a convention that's gone past the first ballot since 
1932. Everybody's making it up as we go along. "
Jack rested his chin on his big hands. "I remember that convention. My family 
listened to it on our radio. We were Roosevelt all the way. I remember my dad 
breaking out the bootleg hootch when Texas Jack Garner defected from Smith and 
gave Roosevelt the nomination."
Amy smiled at him. " I keep thinking of you as my younger ... indiscretion. I 
just can't picture you as old enough to live through those times."
"Till Gregg came along, the only presidential candidate I voted for was 
Roosevelt in '44, when I was overseas. Before that I was too young to vote. In 
'48 I couldn't make up my mind between Truman and Wallace, so I never cast a 
ballot at all."
"You almost voted for George Wallace?" Amy seemed a little shocked. "That seems 
unlike you."
Jack felt terribly old. "Henry Wallace, Amy. Henry Wallace."
"Oh. Sorry. "
"Just to make it absolutely clear, the Roosevelt I mentioned was Franklin, not 
Teddy."
"That I knew." Grinning. "How'd your meeting with Hiram go? Or should I ask?"
Jack shook his head. "It was weird. I really don't know what to make of it." He 
looked at her. "Is Worchester okay? I wondered if he was ill. He didn't look 
healthy."
"Mmm."
"He's got this big sore on his neck. I read somewhere that sores like that could 
be a symptom of AIDS."
Amy blinked in astonishment. "Hiram?"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know the man, Amy. The only impression I had was that he 
really wasn't interested in me."
"Well." She ventured a brief smile. "I guess that means you got along all 
right."
"He didn't hand me any more dimes, anyway."
"That's encouraging." She cocked her head and looked at him. " I met a celebrity 
this morning. Josh Davidson. You ever met him?"
"The actor? What's he doing here?"
"His daughter's one of our delegates. He's here as an observer. I thought you 
might know each other, being actors and all."
"There are a few actors I haven't met. Honest."
"He's charming as anything. Real smooth."
Jack grinned at her. "Sounds like you're considering an older, uh, 
indiscretion."
Amy laughed. "Well. Maybe if he'd shave off the beard."
"I doubt it. That beard's one of his trademarks."
One of jack's phones rang. He looked at the row of telephones on his desk and 
tried to decide which one wanted him. Amy stood.
"Gotta go, Jack. That's probably Danny Logan anyway."
"Yeah." Parliamentary tactics, Jack thought. Oh, great. Another phone began to 
ring. Jack crossed the suite and picked up a receiver. He heard only a dial 
tone. It was setting out to be that kind of day.

11:00 A.M.
With a nasal squeal of fury Mackie ripped the calendar o the petechiate 
wallpaper. It displayed an open-lipped pussy presented for his approval--which 
wasn't coming-framed in dark hair and olive-thigh flesh, the tentative smile of 
a Puerto Rican girl hovering off above it in the middle distance. Mackie put a 
buzz on his fingers and ran them across the photo. Bits of woman went 
everywhere, a flurry of coloredpaper snow. That made him feel better.
It was almost as good as the real thing.
But while it could be assuaged, nothing was changing the thing that was pissing 
him off in the first place: the man he had come to kill wasn't here. Mackie 
didn't take disappointment well.
Maybe if he hung out a while Digger Downs would return home. He kicked over a 
low table of blond, wood-like veneer, purchased from some rental store, and went 
to the kitchen, while tabloids, racing forms, and issues of Photo District News 
fluttered around the floor like wounded birds. The SounDesign stereo on the 
cinderblock-and-board bookcase spritzed robopop at the fading seams on the back 
of his leather jacket.
The icebox was like a fifties Detroit car, big and bulging, and banded with 
chrome from which even phony luster w long since gone. All it lacked was fins. 
He yanked the door open. Inside were a bunch of white cardboard fast-fo 
containers; half a deli sandwich, entombed in Saran Wrap, the meat gone the 
color of a morning-after bruise; a carton of eggs with the top ripped off, and 
two eggshells punctured, as if by a drunken thumb while some of their comrades 
were on their way to a morning-after omelet; two six packs of Little King and 
one of no-name creme soda; and plastic margarine tubs filled with this and that, 
mostly mold. There were a few little gray plastic cylinders that obviously held 
film. These Mackie opened and unspooled, gleefully bathing them in the dubious 
radiance of the one bare bulb protruding like a hemorrhoid from the ceiling.
He closed the door, buzzed a hand, and slashed across. The thick-gauge metal 
parted with a shower of sparks and a satisfactory vibration up his arm and down 
his dick. Onlv skin was more fun to cut than good metal. He grabbed the 
refrigerator, pulled, got it rocking with a strength that was surprising in his 
skinny, twisted little body, and pulled the thing over with a satisfying bang on 
the cracked linoleum. Then he turned his attention to the cupboards that crowded 
around a sink filled with caked and crusty dishes, which gave off a fruity fecal 
wino smell, something you could dip a spoon into.
The cupboards were layered, like a televangelist's wife, with enamel. Though 
they hadn't been refinished in living memory they gave off an odor of paint, 
overlaid with eons of cigarette smoke that had permeated the cabinets to their 
presumed bedrock of wood, that actually competed with the organic decay in the 
sink. Inside he found sixteen bags of Doritos, two cans of beans, one of them 
opened, replaced, and forgotten during binge munchies, and a box of Frosted 
Flakes. Tony the Tiger looked ill. The beans smelled like a dead cat.
"This is Randy St. Clair, and I'll be coming back at you with more sounds of 
your city from WBLS-FM, 107.5 at the end of your dial," the radio was saying 
when he came back in the living room. "But first, on Newsbreak, Sandy will tell 
us how the delegates are preparing for a long, hot summer week in Atlanta, and 
update us on continuing reports of genocide in Guatemala, and she'll have the 
latest on a grisly celebrity murder in Jokertown. Sandy?"
He frowned. It was too bad about Chrysalis. The Man had promised he could do her 
himself one day. Now he'd never find out what it would be like to put his hand 
in that glass-clear meat.
That was a brand new bitch, and it made him mad all over again. He went from 
room to room of the cramped apartment breaking what he found, alternating 
between exhilarated and clinical: Will this make me feel better? It was 
vandalism as designer drugs.
The bed was propped up with textbooks under one corner: French, darkroom 
technique, a police text on interrogation. There was no spread. The sheet was 
tie-dyed with bodily fluids of the kind you were supposed to encase yourself in 
Latex rather than come in contact with. He shredded things.
When he emerged he was starting to feel cranked at Downs again. Der Mann wasn't 
going to like this, not for one little minute.
Well, Downs just wasn't here. The Man could hardly blame him for that; it wasn't 
his fault. Fuck it. He phased through the outer wall, into the corridor.
As he did, a door across and down one opened.
"I tell you it's those Chinese people," a woman was saying in that nosy whine 
that made these New York people sound to Mackie like big, fleshy insects. 
"They're all drug dealers, you know. I saw all about them on the 60 Minutes. 
This Mr. Downs, he's, like, a crusading investigative reporter. I figure he got 
too close to them, the tong sent somebody over to mess his place up. There must 
be a dozen of them, the noise they were making. With sledgehammers and chain 
saws."
She pushed out into the hallway like an East River tug in housecoat and 
fluorescent-pink, fuzzy slippers, with a hankie tied over curlers, and a super 
in tow. The super was a black man not much taller than Mackie, with a mustache 
and gray-stippled hair bushing out in back from beneath a Montreal Expos 
baseball cap. He had on paint-smeared, gray coveralls. He nodded distractedly at 
the woman while grumbling to himself, and tossing his big steel ring of keys for 
the master to Digger's apartment. He didn't notice Mackie.
The woman did notice Mackie. She screamed.
He smiled. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him all day.
The super looked up at him, his mouth a shout of pink in his dark face. Mackie 
felt his hands begin to vibrate as of their own accord. This wasn't going to be 
a total loss after all.
Jack saw the weird red pyramids, looking like some strange form of acoustic 
tile, that crowned the Omni Center, and headed in their direction. He'd got lost 
in Peachtree Center looking for cigarettes, and taken the wrong route to the 
convention.
Ted Turner's Omni Center was built of a new type of steel that was designed to 
rust. The theory was that the rust would protect the steel underneath, and from 
what Jack had seenand Jack had built a lot of buildings over the last thirty 
years-the theory was perfectly correct.
Still, the damn thing was so ugly.
He was approaching one of the convention's back entrances. A uniformed guard 
stood outside the closed door. Jack nodded into the mans shades, then tried to 
step past him to the door.
"Wait a minute." The guard's voice was sharp. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Into the convention."
"Like hell you are."
Jack looked at him. Connally, the man's name badge said. He had a broken nose 
and a little silver Christian cross pinned to his collar.
Great, Jack thought. Probably a Barnett supporter. He unclipped his ID and floor 
pass from his pocket and waved them in the guard's face.
"I'm a delegate. It's okay."
"No one gets through this door. Ever. Those are my instructions. "
"I'm a delegate."
Connally appeared to reconsider. "Okay. Let's see that ID."
Jack handed it over. Connally squinted as he looked at it. When he looked up, 
there was an evil grin on his face. "You don't look sixty-four to me," he said.
"I'm well-preserved."
The guard reached for his walkie-talkie. "This is Connally. Situation Three."
Jack waved his arms. "What the hell is that?"
"You're under arrest, asshole. Impersonating a delegate." "I ant a delegate."
"The Secret Service are on their way. You can talk to them."
Jack stared at the guard in rising despair. This, he realized, was only Monday.
12:00 NOON
"Devils and ancestors. What are you doing here?"
Jack Braun eyed Tachyon sourly. "I'm headed for that bar." His long arm speared 
the underside of the raised piano bar. "For a drink ... or two ... or three, and 
if anybody tries to get in my way-"
"You should be on the convention floor."
"I was trying to get to the goddamn convention floor when this lard-assed 
security guard accused me of impersonating a delegate, and had me arrested. It 
took Charles Devaughn to cut me loose. So I've had a rather trying morning, 
Tachyon, and I'm going to get a drink."
"The Barnett forces are desperately politicking for delegates. You need to be 
there to keep California solid."
"Tachyon, in case you've forgotten; I'm the head of the California delegation. I 
think I can handle it." Braun roared, and several ever vigilant reporters craned 
to see the fight. "Jesus, you've been an American citizen what, five, six 
months, and already you're an authority on American politics?"
"Anything I do, I do well," replied Tachyon primly, but he was working to subdue 
a smile. Braun spotted it and suddenly grinned.
"Relax, Tachyon. Gregg's not going to lose California."
"Jesse Jackson wants to talk to me," said Tach with one of his bewilderingly 
abrupt changes of topic.
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know. I might learn something."
"I doubt it. Jesse's one smart operator. And besides, you're not working for the 
Hartmann campaign. Objectivity of the press and all that."
Tachyon frowned. "What do you think he could want?"
"At a guess I'd say your support."
"I have no delegates, no influence."
"Balony. Tachyon, these conventions are like a big shambling dinosaur. A prod in 
the ass can sometimes start the whole beast off in a new direction. If you were 
to switch your support, many of the jokers would follow. People might decide 
that you knew something. It could tilt things toward Jackson, and that's what 
he's after."
"Then I won't see him. This convention is tOO close already."
"Drink?"
"No, thank you. I think I'll head over to the convention center."
Jack started up the stairs. Tachyon stared at that broad back and powerful 
shoulders and wondered if he could shift some of his burdens onto those 
shoulders.
"Jack."
Something of his confusion and fear must have penetrated, for Braun paused part 
way up the stairs, and walked slowly back down. Laying his hands on Tachyon's 
shoulders, he frowned down at the smaller man. "What? What's wrong?"
"Do you think ... do you think it's possible for one of the candidates to be an 
ace?"
"What, here?"
"Yes, of course here! No, the candidate for dog catcher in Shawnee, Oklahoma. 
Don't be an imbecile!"
"I'm not, you just took me off guard, that's all. Why? You got something?"
"No," he said airily, and suspicion flared in the big ace's blue eyes.
"It's hooey ... bunk. Nobody could keep a thing like that hidden from the press. 
Remember Hart."
"He was careless."
"Look, if you're worried check it out. You could do it easily enough."
"Yes, but information received telepathically is not admissible evidence. Also, 
given the current climate in this country, what would they do if they discovered 
I had been using alien mind powers on potential presidential candidates?"
"Hang your skinny alien ass out to dry."
"Precisely." Tach shrugged. "Well, never mind. I just thought I'd mention it ... 
get your opinion ..." His voice trailed away into silence.
"Forget it, Tachy." Jack gave him a shake. "Okay?"
"Okay. "
"Now I'm going to get that drink."
"Don't be too long," Tach yelled after him. "Oh, go to hell."
"American whiskey. Straight up. A double. Two doubles."
"Hard day, sir?"
"Hard liquor for a hard day," Jack said. He lowered his briefcase to the ground 
and noticed for the first time-what was wrong with him anyway?-that the petite 
blonde waitress here in the atrium lounge was really quite attractive. He gave 
her the Hollywood smile that he'd practiced in countless mirrors throughout the 
late forties. "They've probably got you working overtime, too," he said. "Call 
me Jack, by the way."
"Overtime sucks, Jack," she said, and waggled away with a swing to her hips that 
hadn't been in evidence for any of her other customers. Jack began to feel 
slightly better.
After the Secret Service had testified to his bona fides and let him go, Jack 
spent most of the morning telling his delegates thev were about to have their 
votes taken away if they didn't look out. Then Tachyon had harassed him for not 
doing his job, handed him the jive about a secret ace; and the campaign 
parliamentarian Logan, who was supposed to meet him here in the Marriott lounge, 
was already late.
The cheerful waggle of a waitress's butt, he thought, is enough to give a man 
heart for the struggle. Flying Ace gliders swooped overhead in dancing 
accompaniment to his thoughts.
The waitress brought his drinks. He chatted with herher name was Jolynn-and 
tossed down the first drink. Logan still hadn't showed. Jolynn had to leave to 
see to another customer, and Jack tipped her ten dollars, reflecting that all in 
all he enjoyed being rich, even at the cost of having to pretend intelligent 
conversation with a chimpanzee on TV for four years. He watched as a young man 
in a white dinner jacket crossed the atrium lounge to the white piano, then sat 
down and banged out the opening chords to "Piano Man." Jack felt his head try to 
retreat, like that of a turtle, between his shoulders.
Moss Hart, Jack thought desperately. Kurt Weill. George and Ira Gershwin. 
Richard Rodgers-Jack could still remember the opening night of South Pacific.
Maybe he could just tip the guy a hundred bucks and tell him not to play 
anything.
"Honky Tonk Women" was next, followed by "New York, New York." Where, Jack 
thought, was Morrie Ryskind when you needed him?
Logan still hadn't showed up. Jack sipped his second drink and stared fixedly at 
Jolynn's heart-shaped ass as it perambulated about the other end of the lounge.
Then another female form drew his attention. Sluts on the right, he thought, an 
expression he'd acquired decades ago in Camp Shenango.
The woman was walking right for him.
Then he saw she was wearing a Barnett button. A slut for the Lord, he concluded.
Then he recognized her. She was Leo Barnett's campaign manager-that was bad 
enough-but there was an old score between them that made everything far worse.
Oh, god.
The piano struck up the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Another 
whole set of memories invaded him, including being spat on the year before in 
Buenos Aires by a female Peronista.
Jack rose, his heart sinking like a lead plummet, and prepared his face for more 
spittle.
"Jack Braun? You have no idea how long I've looked forward to meeting you 
again."
IT just bet, Jack thought.
The voice, he realized, was different. Blythe had had a New York patroon accent 
of the kind that didn't exist anymore, that had died with Franklin and Eleanor. 
And Blythe would have worn red lipstick like all the women did in the forties, a 
bright crimson contrast to her pale face and dark hair. "Fleur van Renssaeler, I 
presume," Jack said. "I'm surprised you remember me."
Which was the civil thing to say, but perfectly ridiculous. According to some, 
Jack had murdered her mother, and Fleur must have found that impossible to 
forget even if she wanted to.
The heart-shaped face tilted far back to look him in the face. " I was-how 
little? Three or four?"
"Something like that."
"I remember you playing with me on the floor of my father's house."
Jack gazed at her with a face of stone. She was dragging this out incredibly. 
Why didn't she spit on him or claw his face or otherwise get it over with?
"I've always wanted to say how much I admire you," Fleur said. "You've always 
been one of my heroes."
Shock ran like cold fire through Jack's veins. It wasn't that he believed in the 
sincerity of the words ... the shock came from the fact that Blythe's daughter 
would prove this adept at sadism.
"I hardly deserve it." Truthfully.
She smiled. It was a very warm smile. He realized she was standing very close, 
and his groin tingled at the thought she might try to bring her knee up between 
his legs. His wild card would keep him from harm, but old reflexes died hard.
"Aside from the Reverend Barnett," Fleur said, "you're the bravest man I know. 
You risked everything to bring down the aces and ... that alien. I think you've 
been treated shamefully ever since. After all, your whole career was wrecked by 
those Hollywood liberals."
Jack's thoughts dragged with glacial slowness. She was, he realized dumbly, 
absolutely sincere. Something cold crept like a stalking insect up his back.
"I'm .. surprised," he said.
"Because of my mother?" She was still smiling, still standing close. Jack wanted 
to run as fast as his legs would carry him.
"My mother was willful and obstinate. She deserted my father to whore with ... 
that alien creature. The one who brought us the plague." She couldn't say 
Tachyon's name, he realized. "I was well-rid of her," she went on, "and so were 
you. "
Jack remembered he was holding his drink in his hand. He took a long swallow, 
needing the bite of the whiskey to return his staggered senses to reality.
"Surprised at my language?" Fleur said. "The Bible is explicit about whoredom 
and its consequences. The adulterer and the adultress shall surely be put to 
death. Leviticus 20."
"The Bible was also clear about who got to throw the first stone." Jack's tongue 
was thick. He was surprised he could talk at all.
Fleur nodded. "I'm glad you can quote scripture."
"I learned a lot of Bible verses when I was a kid. Most of them in German." He 
took another drink. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" rang in his skull.
"What surprises me," Fleur said, "is who you're keeping company with these 
days." She took a step closer and touched his wrist. Jack managed barely to keep 
from jumping out of his skin. "Senator Hartmann is surely the moral heir of the 
Roosevelt-Holmes clique that almost destroyed our country in the forties. You 
saved us from those people then, and now you've fallen for the liberal humanist 
line again."
"That's me." He managed to grin. "Fallen."
"I thought I might raise you again." Her fingers ran up and down his strong 
wrist.
Slut for the Lord indeed, thought Jack.
"I wanted to talk to you in person. That's why I'm here in the--" She gave a 
bell-like laugh. "These unhallowed halls."
"Everyone needs to go slumming now and again." He stared at her, sickness rising 
in his belly. Fleur van Renssaeler, he realized, was the most twisted bitch he'd 
ever met in his life. His third wife included.
"I thought perhaps we could get together. Talk about ... politics. Talk about 
Senator Hartmann, Reverend Barnett."
"Barnett wants to put me in a concentration camp."
"Not you. You're a proven patriot. The Lord has turned your curse into a 
blessing."
Jack could taste bile. "Glad to know I'm immune to the Lord's roundup. How about 
every other poor sucker who's got a wild card?"
"If I could just explain it to you. Talk you back onto the right path. The path 
of Reverend Barnett and my father." Finally Jack's anger rumbled to the surface. 
He saw Logan's head above the crowd of delegates, and knew it was time to go.
"Barnett's path I can't say anything about," Jack said as he picked up his 
briefcase. "But your father's I knew fairly well. He ate like a hog at the 
public trough, and for fun he fucked black boys in Harlem."
The first time he'd ever used the F word to a woman, he thought as he headed for 
Logan.
Though he had to give Fleur credit. She was a real professional. The smile 
hadn't gone, though it had, he thought, stiffened a bit.
He felt slightly cheered. Cheap and lukewarm triumph was better than none.

2:00 P.M.
"Listen, Sara," Charles Devaughn said. "Whatever happened between you and Gregg 
on that world tour is history. It's over. Accept that." Hartmann's campaign 
manager had the sort of brusque preppie good looks people felt the senator had; 
nobody envisioned Hartmann as the round-shouldered ordinary he was.
Sara felt her cheeks begin to glow like a spoon in a microwave. "Damnit, 
Charles, that's not the point. I need to talk to you about the way the senator's 
been acting-"
He turned a shoulder to her, immaculately tailored and midnight blue. "I have no 
further comments for you, Ms. Morgenstern. I would like to ask that you refrain 
from harassing the senator's campaign staffers any further. The press has 
certain responsibilities you'd be wise not to overlook."
He walked. "Charles, wait! This is important " Her words bounced off his wedge 
of back and chased each other like arboreal animals up the Marriott's soaring 
organiformatrium, which she'd overheard a reporter from some fringe journal 
describe as Antoni Gaudi's trachea. Delegates bumping elbows in the lobby 
outside the function rooms turned to stare, their faces pale blank moons hanging 
over gardens of gaudy ribbons and campaign buttons, and in the middle of each a 
little square shine of plaque, like an exhibit at a botanical garden, 
identifying which subspecies of small-time political hustler or wanna-be this 
specimen belonged to.
She struck herself twice on the thighs with the heels of her hands in 
frustration. You're losing it, Sara.
On cue, the projector inside her mind brought up an image of Andrea, her elder 
sister, fine and beautiful as an ice sculpture. A laughing, taunting crystal 
voice, eyes like snowmelt: perfection tiny, mousy Sara could never hope to 
attain. Andrea, who had been dead for thirty years.
Andrea, murdered by the man who would be president. Who had the power to twist 
others to his will. As he had twisted her.
There was no proof, of course. Lord knew it had taken her years to acknowledge 
first the suspicion and then the awful certainty that there had been more to her 
sister's brutal death than the random urges of a retarded adolescent. It had 
taken her long enough to realize that that was why she went into journalism in 
the first place, why she was drawn to Jokertown: deep down, she knew there was 
more. And over the years, as she was establishing a rep as the reporter on joker 
affairs, she had come to be aware of a presence in the joker slum, covert, 
manipulative .. evil.
She'd tried to track it down. Even a star investigative reporter-even an 
obsessed investigator-didn't find it easy to trace the invisible strings of a 
demented puppet master. She persevered.
She was convinced it was Hartmann even before she boarded the Stacked Deck. She 
was certain she would discover the final evidence to convict him on the W.H.O. 
tour.
She had. She felt cool sweat start at the roots of her hair as she remembered 
how her suspicions had begun to erode, then whirl away beyond her reach, like 
driftwood from a drowning woman's fingers. She had actually come to think she 
loved him-and all the time a minute internal voice cried, no, no, what's 
happening to me?
She recalled sweaty skin friction, and him thrusting inside her, and she wanted 
to douche and never stop.
He had controlled her, as he had controlled poor Roger Pellman that Cincinnati 
afternoon when her sister died. Had used her because he perceived her as she 
perceived herself as a poor imitation of her beautiful lost sister. At least 
they shared that obsession with what was lost.
She had her proof, all right; she could still feel the points in her psyche 
where the puppeteer's strings had been attached. And sometimes when they coupled 
she heard the word Andrea grunted among the endearments, and something within 
her chilled even as her body and mind responded with eager need.
But it was no proof at all to anyone who could not read her thoughts.
She found herself drifting, realized she was being drawn by some journalist 
tropism toward Cluster 3, the function rooms clumped beyond the circular 
escalator well. In her growing frenzy to nail down some evidence that might 
convince an outsider, make him look beyond the sober statesman's mask, the air 
of compassion for all those touched by the wild card, that hid the puppet master 
from view, she had paid little attention to the phenomenon of the convention 
itself. The guilt stung her: You're supposed to be dealing with wild card 
affairs.
Self-anger flared: What could be more important to jokers-to anybody-than that a 
psychopathic ace may become the next president of the United States? She thought 
of the puppet master's finger poised above the famed red button and wanted to 
vomit.
Delegates and reporters were streaming from the big corner Sidney Room, flushed 
and noisy as schoolkids. "What's going on?" she asked one, mainly because he was 
little taller than she was.
"It's Barnett's crazies," he told her. "They came up with something juicy on 
Hartmann." He was vibrating with gratified malice. He wore glasses and a big 
Dukakis button.
Could this be it? she wondered, starting to feel cheated that it wasn't her hand 
that had driven the stake through the monster's heart.
"They got to someone who was on the W. H. O. tour last year. Turns out Hartmann 
spent the whole time having himself a fling with some bimbo reporter from The 
Washington Post."
The parade of delegates and politicians through Gregg's suite seemed 
endless-Gregg had to admit that Amy had done a tremendous job contacting people 
on extremely short notice.
But then most delegates were anxious to meet with the front-runner among the 
candidates, and none of the elected officials wanted to offend the man who might 
possibly be the next president.
As for Gregg, the afternoon was interminable and taking its toll. He thought 
he'd locked Puppetman away tightly. He'd even begun to hope that maybe, just 
maybe, the voice inside his head would stay silent for the rest of the week. But 
the bars holding Puppetman were beginning to weaken again. He could hear the 
power, alternately pleading and threatening.
Let me nut! You have to let me out!
He ignored it as well as he could, but his temper was shorter than usual, and 
his smile was sometimes more a grimace. It was worst with the politicians, most 
of whom he could have gotten to agree, with a touch of Puppetman's influence, 
and who now could say no with impunity. That was when Puppetman howled the most.
Ohio Senators Glenn and Metzenbaum showed up on schedule. Ellen greeted them at 
the door; Gregg was changing his shirt in the bedroom. Gregg could hear 
Metzenbaum being his usual ingratiating self. "So it is true. Expectant mothers 
do glow."
Ellen laughed as Gregg walked in. "John, Howard," he said, nodding to them. 
"Please grab something from the bar if you want, and thanks for coming on such 
short notice. I'm trying to meet as many influential people as I can on this-you 
were both at the top of that list."
Get out. That's what he really wanted to say. I'm tired and ragged and my mind's 
splitting in half. Leave me alone. Metzenbaum smiled politely; Glenn, with the 
old astronaut's exaggerated calm, simply nodded, if anything more stonefaced 
than usual. The two were looking at Ellen pointedly. Gregg didn't need to say 
anything; Ellen was wellexperienced at picking up such cues.
"Well, I'll leave you folks to your politics," she said. "I've a meeting of my 
own with the NOW delegates. You are backing the ERA, aren't you?" She smiled 
again and took her leave. Gregg walked her to the door. On impulse, he gathered 
her into his arms and kissed her deeply. "Listen, Ellen, I just want you to know 
how much I appreciate all your help today, without you ... well, that incident 
this morning. Please don't think any more of it. I'm just tired, that's all. The 
stress ..."
He couldn't seem to stop talking. The words just kept tumbling out and he felt 
closer to her than he had in months. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you . ."
Glenn and Metzenbaum were staring. Ellen stopped his words with a quick kiss. 
"You have guests, dear," she said, looking at him strangely.
Gregg smiled apologetically; it felt more like a death'shead grin. "Yes, I 
supppose ... I'll see you in a bit for dinner: Bello Mondo, right?"
"Six-thirty. Amy said she'd call to remind you." Ellen hugged Gregg wordlessly. 
"I love you." She gave him another long look, and stepped out.
Down below, Puppetman howled for attention. Gregg felt sweat beading on his 
brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and turned back into the room.
"Ohio's been very good to me, gentlemen," he said. "You two are largely 
responsible. I suppose you're both aware that we're looking for support on 9(c) 
and the California--" They weren't listening. Gregg stopped in mid-sentence. 
"What?" he asked.
"We have a bigger problem, Gregg," Glenn said. "Bad news, I'm afraid. There's a 
nasty story going around about you and Morgenstern on the aces junket ..."
Gregg was no longer listening. Sara Morgenstern. His career seemed to be 
inexorably linked to hers. Puppetman's first victim had been thirteen-year-old 
Andrea Whitman, Sara's sister. Gregg had only been eleven at the time. It was 
only bizarre coincidence that had caused Sara to suspect, many years later, that 
Gregg had been involved in Andrea's death. To nullify Sara, and to satisfy 
Puppetman's own needs, he had taken Sara as a puppet the year before. On the 
wild cards junket, as discreetly as possible, they'd become lovers.
Gregg could see it all unraveling-the nomination, the presidency, his career. 
What had happened to Gary Hart could, after all, just as easily happen to him.
Inside, hardly muffled at all, Puppetman screamed.
For a while she simply wandered.
When she got back to her room in the Hilton the message light on the phone was 
glowing like a telltale on the console of a reactor on overload. When she called 
the desk, there were about twelve-thousand messages from Braden Dulles in D.C. 
waiting for her. Another call came in as she was getting the word, and the 
harried-sounding hotel operator patched it through.
"Is this true?" he asked.
She felt her breath congeal in her throat. It had been like this the one time 
she tried cocaine, back when she was still married to upwardly mobile lawyer 
David Morgenstern: the muscles of her chest just refused to work.
"Yes. "
At the door, the first knock came.

5:00 P.M.
Amy Sorenson met Gregg and Ellen behind the podium screen. On the other side of 
heavy velvet curtains, Gregg could hear the loud conversations of the reporters; 
the glare of video lights washed under the red folds. "They're all primed," Amy 
said. "I have your guests next door; I'll get them after you go in." She touched 
the wireless receiver in her ear and listened for a second. "Okay, Billy Ray 
says everything's fine. Are you ready?"
Gregg nodded. It had been a long, hard afternoontrying to get news from New 
York, working with Jack and a mostly soused Danny Logan (Logan was definitely 
one puppet he'd driven too far) on the strategy for the California fight later 
tonight, putting out brushfire rumors about his affair, arranging things with 
the justice Department, setting up this press conference. He'd worried that the 
stress would bring Puppetman back to conciousness, but the power was still 
silent and buried. He could sense only the barest rustle of its struggling.
But Gimli-if it was Gimli ... That presence was still very much with him. Gregg 
could hear the dwarf's evil chuckling, and he wondered, as he'd wondered much of 
the afternoon, if he weren't approaching some kind of breakdown. With the 
thought, the Gimli-voice surged forward.
You are, Greggie, he said. I'm going to fucking make sure of it.
Gregg took a deep breath and pretended he'd not heard the voice. He took Ellen's 
hand, squeezed it, then patted the swell of her belly. "We're ready. Let's get 
on with the circus, Amy."
Gregg fixed a smile on his face as Amy held the curtains aside. He took the 
three steps up to the stage at a bound, Ellen following slowly. Cameras clicked 
like a plague of mechanical insects; electronic flashes stuttered their brief 
lightning. At the podium, Gregg waited until the reporters had quieted in their 
seats, looking down at the outline of Tony Calderone's speech in his hand. Then 
he raised his head.
"As usual, I don't have much in the way of a formal statement," he said, waving 
the single page of handwriting. That received the small laugh he'd 
expected-Gregg had a reputation as an off-the-cuff speaker who regularly strayed 
from Tony's prepared text, and most of the reporters in the audience had been 
with him on the campaign trail for months. "There's a good reason for that, too. 
I really don't have much to say at this press conference. I feel that the less 
one responds to vicious and unfounded rumors, the better. And I know what you 
'll all say to that: `Don't blame us. The press has its responsibility.' I hope 
you all feel better for having that out of the way."
There was more chuckling at that, mostly from those he knew were in his camp. 
The rest waited, solemn.
He paused, glancing again at the notes Tony, Braun, Tachyon, and he had made. At 
the same time, like a person constantly probing at a broken tooth, he felt for 
Puppetman and sensed nothing. He relaxed slightly. "We all know why you're here. 
I'm going to say my piece, answer a few question if you want, and go on to other 
things. I've already seen fellow candidate ruined by what was essentially 
innuendo an circumstance. Whether Gary Hart actually did anything was 
immaterial. He was injured by rumors and might have to credibility even if he'd 
actually done nothing at all."
"Well, I'm not Gary Hart; he's better looking. Even Ellen says so."
They grinned at that, almost universally, and Gregg himself smiled with them. He 
placed his notes carefully an visibly to one side, and leaned on his elbows 
toward them. "I think I can point out a few other differences. The Stacked Dee 
wasn't the Monkey Business. We went to Berlin, not Bimini And Ellen was along on 
the entire trip."
Gregg glanced over to Ellen and nodded. On cue, s returned his smile.
"Senator?" Gregg squinted into the glare oflights and sa Bill Johnson of The Los 
Angeles Times waving his notebook Gregg gestured for him to go ahead. "Then 
you're denying that you and Sara Morgenstern have had an affair?" Johnson asked 
"I certainly know Ms. Morgenstern, as does Ellen, an she's been a family friend. 
She has her own problems, and have no knowledge of precisely what she's said or 
hasn't sat recently. But I don't go sneaking around behind my wife i back."
Ellen leaned in close to Gregg with a mischievous look "Bill, I did catch Gregg 
eyeing Peregrine from time to time but he was hardly the only one doing that."
Laughter. The cameras began flashing again, and th tension in the room visibly 
dissolved. Gregg grinned, but th expression went cold and dead on his face. 
Gimli's voice seemed to whisper just behind his ear.
You screwed her, Hartmann. You spread her legs on five different continents, and 
your little ace made her smile and think she enjoyed it. But she didn't, did 
she? Not really. She doesn't think much of you now, not at all. Not without 
Puppetman.
Ellen sensed Gregg's distress. He knew his hand was clammy in hers. She was 
still smiling, but behind the eyes was worry. He shook his head slightly, 
pressing her fingers.
Such a fucking professional wife you have, too. She knou exactly what to do, 
doesn't she? Smiles at just the right time, says just the right thing, even lets 
you knock her up so she'll be nice and matronly for the convention. You're so 
proud, such a good daddy. You're a bastard, Hartmann. I am too, and this little 
bastard's going to wreck your life. I'm going to make your pet ace rip you open 
so everyone can see.
Listening to the voice, he'd waited a beat too long. He could hear the laughter 
dying, the moment passing. He hurried to catch them again, refusing to listen to 
Gimli's continuing stream of invective.
"Okay, as Ellen has pointed out, I'm guilty of some of Jimmy Carter's lust of 
the heart. I doubt there's very many of us who aren't-Peregrine would be 
disappointed if it were any other way. Beyond that, I'm afraid that you've been 
duped. There's a rumor, and nothing else. From today on, I'm going to consider 
this whole question answered, and we'll try to concentrate on real issues. If 
you want more of a story about this, look at your sources. Ask yourself what 
ulterior motives were responsible for spreading this kind of trash."
"Are you accusing Leo Barnett or his staff?" A voice from the back: Connie Chung 
of NBC.
"I'm not naming names, Ms. Chung; I don't have them. I'd like to believe that a 
God-fearing man such as Reverend Barnett would refuse to use such tactics, and 
I'm certainly not going to cast the first stone." Another wave of laughter. "But 
the lie started somewhere-track it down. I notice Ms. Morgenstern hasn't been 
quoted directly by any of you. I haven't seen anv tangible proof at all. That 
should tell you something immediately, I'd think."
He had them. He'd turned it around. He could see it, feel it. Yet there was very 
little sense of triumph in Gregg. Beneath everything, he could sense a familiar 
stirring. Puppetman was rising, still deep down, but heading for the surface. 
Just another day, he thought. Give me that much time.
You can't keep it down even that long, Hartmann. You're addicted. That's all 
Puppetman is: your goddamn drug. And you both need a fix, don't you? Gimli 
chuckled. To get it, you've got to get around me. Ain't it a fucking pity.
Both Ellen and Amy were staring at him. He was standing stock still, frozen. 
Gregg gave them an apologetic shrug and continued.
"A few minutes ago, Bill Johnson called me `Senator.' Now, it's been over a year 
since I gave up my seat to run for this candidacy, but I understand the mistake. 
Bill's been calling me Senator-when he hasn't been calling me other things-for 
years now."
A slow amusement moved through the ranks in front him. "That's habit," Gregg 
told them, sliding easily back into Tony's speech. "It's easy to let habits rule 
us. It's easy for us to cling to ancient prejudices, clouded outlooks, and 
outright fables. But we can't do that, not now. We hear too many rumors and 
believe them without foundation. We've had the habits and listened to the lies 
for years: that jokers are somehow accursed; that it's right to hate 
people-jokers o otherwise-because they look or act differently; that people 
can't change, and the way it is is the way it must be. If yo believe opinions 
and feelings are set in concrete, you 'r right-you can't change, you can't grow. 
But when we can d something that defies such beliefs, well, to me that's worth 
more coverage than sensational rumors about infidelity." Gregg glanced over to 
Ellen; she nodded back. Gimli still there and Gregg's head ached with the sound 
of his voice but he blinked and went on. He wanted to get off the podium, to be 
alone in his room. He was rushing, speaking too fast; he forced himself to slow 
down.
"I'm pleased to say that some things we think eternal pass. I've based my entire 
campaign on the idea that now is the tim to heal the wounds. Opinions change. We 
can embrace those we once hated. That's important. That's newsworthy. And it's 
also not my story. I can understand a person who takes his o her fervor too far. 
I can understand passionate conviction even when I don't agree with them. We all 
have things w believe in strongly and that's good. It becomes a proble when such 
passion crosses the line beyond fervor to violence. There have been joker 
organizations that have sometimes stepped over that line."
Gregg gestured to the back of the stage. "Amy, pleas( bring them out."
The curtains at the back of the stage parted, and jokers stepped into the light. 
One had skin marked with fine serrated ridges; the other was shadowy and the 
ghost of the curtains could be seen through him. The press began t murmur.
"I'm sure I don't need to introduce File and Shroud t you. Their faces were 
prominent in your papers and on your broadcasts last year when the JJS was 
finally broken up." Gimli laughed inside at that; Gregg swallowed hard. "Some of 
the JJS, those who seemed peripheral members or harmless, were simply fined and 
released. Others, the ones deemed truly dangerous, were incarcerated. File and 
Shroud have been in a federal prison since that time. Perhaps deservedly so-both 
have admitted to extremely violent acts. Yet ... I was the direct victim of some 
of that violence, and I've spoken to File and Shroud extensively in the last 
year. I feel that they've both learned a hard and painful lesson and are 
genuinely remorseful."
"I will stand by my own words and convictions. I believe in reconciliation. We 
need to forgive, we need to strive to understand those less fortunate than 
ourselves. Today, in an agreement with Governor Cuomo of New York, the Justice 
Department, and the New York Senate, I've arranged to grant parole to File and 
Shroud."
Gregg placed his arms around the jokers: the rough skin of File, the misty 
shoulders of Shroud. "This is far more important than rumors. This is genuine, 
and it's also not my story-it's theirs. I'll let them convince you as they 
convinced me. Talk to them. Ask them your questions. Amy, if you'd moderate -"
As the first questions were shouted from the crowd and File stepped to the 
microphone, Gregg took a deep breath and retreated.
Don't you understand? Gimli taunted as Gregg left the room and headed for the 
elevators. You haven't gotten rid of me. You can't run away from my particular 
obsession. I'm here. And I'm staying. I don't forgive. Not at all.
With fingers without feeling Sara replaced the receiver in its cradle.
She'd fled her room in tears, trusting in her small size and a certain knack of 
invisibility that had served her well at various points in her career to hide 
her in the mob. At first it worked. When they paged her in the lobby, it set a 
fresh pack of reporters baying after her, hungry to worry bones from which 
Hartmann's bland denial hadn't filleted the last scraps of meat.
Is Hartmann telling the truth? Why did Barnett's announcement specify you? 
What's your connection to the Bar-
nett campaign? The questions split half and half between trying to get her to 
admit she'd hit the rack with Hartmann and trying to get her to admit she'd 
conspired with the fundamentalists to wreck the senator's good name.
Part of her ached to use the proffered forum, to announce, Yes, I slept with 
Gregg Hartmann, and I learned that he's a monster, a covert ace who makes people 
into puppets. Cowardice intervened. Or was it sanity? Her 
revelationsallegations,was the only way they would be viewed-were extravagant 
enough without turning them into Midnight Sun headline fodder.
She turned her face away and said, "No comment." And swallowed whole the 
steaming chunks of abuse: "Where do you get off trying to pull that shit? The 
public has a right to know. You're a journalist, for Christ's sake." Finally a 
cocktailer in leotards and one of those short black skirts took her by the arm 
and steered her here, into the office of the manager of the Marriott's lounge.
The receiver clicked home with the finality of a breech closing on a cartridge. 
Somebody took what she had to say seriously.
The caller was Owen Rayford of the Post's New York bureau. Chrysalis was dead. 
Murdered. Ace powers were involved.
Was it a puppet? She doubted that. Hartmann's strings quickly attenuated and 
broke with distance; she knew that from experience. There were bent 
aces-Bludgeon, Carnifex, maybe the Sleeper if he were far gone in amphetamine 
psychosis-who were capable of such a deed. That was an irony about Hartmann; in 
his position you hardly needed ace powers to get into serious evil doing. Money, 
power, and influence weren't exactly any weaker forces in human affairs than 
they'd been up until the fifteenth of September, 1946.
The fear lived within her; it coiled like a serpent, burned like a star. It 
brought with it terrible knowledge: the only hope of safety lay in risking all.
The manager and the waitress who'd rescued her stood by, watching with polite 
curiosity. She arranged her face in a smile and stood.
"Is there a back way out of here?" she asked.

6:00 P.M.
She had to take a Valium before she could get the damned acoustic coupler to 
work right. Her laptop had an inboard modem, but hotels were leery of modular 
jacks, preferring to keep their phones tethered firmly to the wall by 
old-fashioned cords. So she had to fiddle with the antique external modem, which 
was unforgiving if you didn't get the phone's handset into its twin-cup cradle 
just so.
Eventually she got it going. Then she sat in gloom, lit only by afternoon light 
straggling through the room's heavy curtains, smoking and squinting at the 
screen as the records transferred count spun on and her story spun down the 
wires that connected her NEC laptop to the Post's computers.
It had all come out of her in one orgasmic gush: Andi's death, her suspicion, 
the sinister hidden presence in jokertown who had flashed tantalizing clues as 
to his existence--and identity--during the riots attending another Democratic 
convention twelve years ago; her own personal quest, leading to her entrapment 
in the very web she'd been struggling to delineate. And finally murder.
There were two people, she'd written, who had their fingers on the Jokertown 
pulse. Actually there were three; Tachyon was the third, literally as well as 
figuratively. But he was blinded by personal regard for Hartmann, and the 
political plums the senator had thrown his way, the grants that kept him living 
in a style fit for a prince, which he was. Sara would not invoke his name.
The others were herself and Chrysalis. The Crystal Palace had never been more 
than a front for Chrysalis's real avocation, which was brokering information on 
everything that went down in J-town. Close observers of the scene took it for 
granted that sooner or later she'd reel in a thread and find it had a cobra tied 
to it.
The cobra was named Hartmann. And Chrysalis pulled his string just at the moment 
when he was swollen with venom and quickest to strike.
Why didn't I confide in her? she asked herself as liquid crystal numbers 
flickered in the dim. There had been plenty of time, when they gained a guarded 
sort of friendship aboard the Stacked Deck, during the year that intervened. But 
Chrysalis had remained in some sense a rival. And Sara was not a woman who found 
sharing confidences an easy thing.
UPLOAD COMPLETED, her screen said, with a beep for emphasis. She quickly broke 
the connection and began to disconnect the modem. Calm had come upon her, 
strange and a little frightening. The calm of an accident victim.
I'm a target, she thought without emotion. If Chrysalis learned his seeret, he 
has to assume that I know. She regretted pushing so hard at Hartmann's staffers 
earlier in the day. He had to have heard about that, and the inference would be 
unavoidable.
You're such an innocent, she chided herself. Naive, just as Ricky said you were.
But she wasn't a total fool. She was wading in the shark tank now. She'd learned 
a lot of moves during a long and successful journalistic career. None of them 
would suffice to get her to dry land intact. That was maybe the most important 
thing she knew right now.
She turned off the NEC's power and clicked its cover closed. She tucked the 
miniature computer into her shoulder bag. Stood.
It has to be Tachyon, she knew. He had to have his suspicions about what had 
been happening in Jokertown over the years-about what had happened in Syria and 
Berlin. He could read her mind, if he doubted her words.
Besides, he thinks I'm ... attractive. Even if he refused to believe her, there 
was a way to attach herself to him. She had been prepared to offer herself to 
him before, when she was convinced the Doughboy case would lead to Hartmann. He 
had a certain magnetism. It might not even be so bad.
Don't kid yourself. She had not been with a man sincesince the tour. She hadn't 
felt the lack. Even before the famous affair, sex hadn't been her biggest 
priority.
But survival was. At least until Andrea was avenged.
At least Tachyon seemed the type to take his pleasure in a hurry and be done 
with it-no protracted grunting and groaning and Was It Good for You Too? She 
stabbed her cigarette to death on the Hilton logo embossed in the plastic 
ashtray. Pausing to dab some perfume on the insides of her wrists, where blue 
veins met white skin, she walked out the door.

7:00 P.M.
The convention had broken up for dinner and would reconvene at nine. Jack shared 
the glass elevator with a man who carried a tall stack of Domino's pizzas, and 
stood with his face turned firmly to the door-he hated heights, a phobia that 
developed after Tachyon pointed out, forty years before, that a long fall was 
one of the few things that could kill him. The elevator doors opened, and Jack 
thankfully followed the pizzas down the hall to Hartmann's headquarters. 
Floating up from the atrium lobby were the chords of "Don't Cry for Me, 
Argentina." Bar pianists, he thought, seemed a bit overspecialized.
Billy Ray, chest puffed out as he stood guard in the hallway in his white 
Carnifex suit, passed the deliveryman, but with a martial artist's quickness, 
stepped in front of Jack as he tried to follow.
"Did the senator send for you, Braun?"
Jack looked at him. "Don't push. It's been a hard day." Ray's face, which had 
quite literally been rearranged in a fight, gave Jack a leer. "Your plight 
touches my heart. Let's see what's in the case."
Jack bit back his annoyance and opened his briefcase, revealing the cellular 
phone and computer-operated dialing system that kept him in touch with his 
delegates and Hartmann HQ.
"Let's see vour ID."
Jack dug the laminated card out of his pocket. "You're really a prat, Ray."
"Prat? What the fuck kinda word is that?" Ray's twisted face leered at Jack's 
ID. "That's not the word the strongest ace in the world would use. That's the 
kinda word some insignificant shivering weenie might use." He licked his lips as 
if savoring the idea. "Golden Weenie. Yeah. That's you."
Jack looked at Ray and folded his arms. Billy Ray had been riding him for over a 
year, ever since they'd met on the Stacked Deck. "Get out of my way, Billy."
Ray stuck out his jaw. "What are you gonna do if I don't, weenie?" He smiled. 
"Give me your best shot. Just try it." Jack comforted himself for a moment with 
the mental picture of squashing Ray's head like a pumpkin. Ray's wild card gave 
him strength and speed, and his kung fu or whatever gave him skill, but Jack 
figured he could still demolish him with one punch. On second thought Jack 
decided it wasn't what he was here for.
"Right now, my job's getting the senator elected, and fighting with his 
bodyguard isn't going to do that. But after Gregg's in the White House, I 
promise I'll kick a field goal with you, okay?"
"I'm holding you to that, weenie."
"Any time after November eighth."
"See you at one minute after midnight on the ninth, weenie."
Ray stepped aside and Jack entered the headquarters suite. Open pizza boxes were 
surrounded by gorging campaign workers. TV monitors babbled network analyses to 
media-deaf ears. Jack found out which room Danny Logan was using, took a pizza 
box, and set off.
The campaign parliamentarian was a white-haired, paunchy former congressman from 
Queens who had lost his seat when his Irish constituency was replaced by Puerto 
Ricans. Now he advised Democratic candidates on how to collect Irish-American 
votes.
Jack saw him spread-eagled alone on his bed, surrounded by empty bottles and 
crumpled yellow legal-sized sheets, covered with numbers. "Better eat 
something," Jack said, and dropped the pizza box onto Logan's wide stomach.
"It's not going to make a bit of difference," Logan said. His voice was thick. 
"We don't have the numbers. We're going to lose 9(c}-the test case."
Jack rubbed his eyes. "Refresh my memory."
"9(c) is a formula for apportioning delegates formerly committed to candidates 
who have dropped out of the race. According to 9(c), the ex-candidates' 
delegates are divided among the remaining candidates in proportion to the number 
of votes the survivors won in those states. In other words, after Gephardt 
dropped out, his delegates from Illinois, say, were divided between Jackson, 
Dukakis, and us according to the percentage of the vote."
"Right."
"Barnett and a few of the party elders are challenging 9(c). They want to free 
the delegates to vote for whoever they want. Barnett figures he can pick up a 
few votes; the party elders want to start a movement for Cuomo or Bradley among 
the uncommitted." Logan ran a hand through his thinning white hair. "We 
announced our support for the rule thought we'd see who lined up for and 
against, to give us a hint how the California challenge will go."
"And we're losing on 9(c)?" Jack reached for a bottle and drank from the neck.
"Gregg's making some phone calls. But since Dukakis came out against 9(c), we're 
fighting a losing fight." He slammed his fist into the bed. "Everyone keeps 
asking about those stories about the senator and that reporter lady. That we're 
going to have another Hart fiasco. That's where the resistance lies. Everybody's 
smelling Gregg's blood."
"What can you do?" Jack said.
"Just try to delay." Logan belched massively. "Lots of ways to delay in this 
game."
"And then?"
"And then Gregg starts working on his concession speech."
Anger crackled in Jack like a burst of lightning. He waved a big fist. "We won 
the big primaries! We've got more votes than anybody."
"That's why we're a target. Aw, shit." Tears were rolling from the corners of 
Logan's eyes. He swiped at them with the back of one red paw. "Gregg stuck by me 
when I lost my seat. There isn't a more decent man alive. He deserves to be 
president." His face crumpled. "But we don't have the numbers!"
Jack watched as Logan began to weep, the pizza box jogging up and down on his 
broad stomach. Jack left his drink on the bedside table and wandered out of the 
room. Hopelessness sang in him like a keening wind.
All that work, he thought. All the renewed hope that had got him into public 
life again. All for nothing.
In the main HQ, campaigners were still clustered around pizza boxes. Jack asked 
where Hartmann was and was told the senator was cloistered with deVaughn and Amy 
Sorenson, plotting strategy. Then they'd try a last-minute phone blitz to win 
over some of the uncommitted superdelegates. Without anything else to do, Jack 
took a piece of pizza and settled down in front of the television monitors.
"It'll be a close vote." Ted Koppel's voice rang in Jack's ear, speaking from 
the nearly empty floor of the convention to a cynical-looking David Brinkley in 
the sky booth. "The Hartmann forces are counting on this test to show their 
strength prior to the showdown over the California challenge."
"Isn't. That. A risky. Strategy?" Brinkley's curt manner seemed to inflate each 
word into its own sentence. "Hartmann's strategy has always been risky, David. 
His articulation of liberal political principal in a race dominated by glib 
media personalities has always been thought risky by his own strategists. Even 
if he loses California tonight, Hartmann's campaign manager told me that he'll 
still stand by the jokers' Rights plank in the platform fight tomorrow." 
Brinkley affected curmudgeonly surprise. "Are you telling me, Ted. That in this 
day and age. A man can get. To be front-runner. By a consistent public 
articulation. Of principle?"
Koppel grinned. "Did I say that, David? I didn't mean to suggest that Hartmann's 
campaign wasn't media-wise-just that it's been consistent in the image it's 
presented to the voter, just as the campaigns of Leo Barnett and Jesse Jackson, 
the other two candidates nearest the prize, have been equally consistent. But, 
like I said, any strategy has its risks. The campaign of Walter Mondale in '84 
stands as an example to any politician who dares to be too consistent and 
articulate."
"But let us suppose. That Hartmann loses the fight. How can he possibly. Regain 
momentum?"
"He may not, David." Koppel was obviously excited. "If Gregg Hartmann can't win 
by at least a small margin in the fight over Rule 9(c), he may lose everything. 
The big challenge over California may just prove an anticlimax-he could lose the 
whole shooting match right here in the fight over 9(c)." Drama, Jack thought. 
Everything had to be dramatized. Each vote had to be the vote, the significant 
vote, the critical vote, or else the voracious media gods were unhappy and had 
nothing to fill the air with but their own meanderings.
Jack tossed his half-eaten pizza slice back into the box. He crossed the room 
and met Amy Sorenson coming out of her meeting. There was despair in her dark 
eyes. Hartmann was on the phone, she said, trying to round up last-minute votes. 
Hopeless, Jack thought. He picked up his briefcase, left HQ, and headed down the 
hall to Logan's room. The parliamentarian was passed out on the bed, clutching a 
whiskey bottle as if it were a woman.
Alone in the corner, the television rattled on. Cronkite and Rather were 
analyzing Hartmann's strategy and concluding that he may have overreached this 
time. They reminded Jack of a pair of television movie critics chewing up a new 
film. What if there wasn't any drama? Jack thought. What if the vote came and 
nothing happened, it was just some little procedural thing? Wouldn't everyone be 
surprised if someone, came along and took the drama away? What if someone, some 
media god or something, went and canceled Leo Barnett's showdown?
Jack realized he was staring at his briefcase.
He opened the case, picked up the phone, told the little computer memory to get 
him Hiram Worchester. "Worchester?" he said. "This is Jack Braun. I'm speaking 
for Danny Logan."
"Has Logan come up with any numbers yet? From what I can see, we're in real 
trouble."
Jack reached to the bedside table and swallowed the remains of his drink. "I 
know," he said. "That's why, when the fight over 9(c) comes up, I want you to 
give half your votes to Barnett."
"You better not be selling us out, Braun."
"I'm not."
"That would be your classic Judas ace style, wouldn't it? A quick stab in the 
back, then a new job in the media courtesy of Leo Barnett."
Jack closed his fist. The glass in his hand exploded in a flash of gold light.
"Are you going to do this or not?" Jack demanded. He watched as crushed glass 
drained like sand from his fist.
"I want to discuss this with Gregg."
"Call him if you like, but he's busy. Just get ready to cut your delegate count 
in half."
"Would you mind explaining to me what's going on?"
"We're canceling the showdown. If Barnett wins by too large a margin, it's not 
going to prove anything. All it'll mean is that we didn't fight. In the 
pictures, you can't have a gunfight with just one man in the street. The 
audience'll walk out." There was a long silence on the other end of the line. 
Then: "Let me talk to Logan."
"He's on another line."
"Why do you expect me to trust you?" The fat man's furious anger beat at Jack's 
ear.
"I don't have time to argue this. Do it or not, I don't care. Just be ready to 
answer for your decision later."
"If you cost Gregg the election . .."
Jack gave a laugh. "Have you seen ABC? They've already got our man conceding."
Jack cut the connection, then phoned his own assistant Emil Rodriguez. He told 
Rodriguez that he wouldn't be on the floor tonight, that the delegation was his 
to command; but cut his vote in half on 9(c), and then stand like a rock against 
the California challenge.
He began to call every other delegation head, in order of number of votes. By 
the time he made his last call, to the man who controlled Hartmann's two votes 
from the Virgin Islands, the convention had reconvened.
Danny Logan, unconscious on the bed, began to snore. Jack turned on the 
television and sat in the corner with Logan's whiskey bottle. The atmosphere on 
the convention floor was intense. Delegates were scurrying into place around 
their floor leaders. The orchestra was playing-good lord--"Don't Cry for Me, 
Argentina."
A knot of fear began to tighten in Jack's stomach.
Jim Wright, speaker of the House and the chairman the convention had elected 
that afternoon, gaveled the convention to order. A senator from Wyoming stood up 
to move the repeal of 9(c). All the troops were already in line and there was no 
debate.
Jack took a long, long drink; and the roll call began. For the next ten minutes, 
Peter Jennings, seconded by his people on the floor, spoke in serious tones 
about Gregg Hartmann's stunning defeat. Jack could hear people outside the room 
marching up and down. Twice someone knocked, and twice he ignored them.
Then David Brinkley, his sardonic grin firmly in place, began to wonder aloud if 
he smelled a rat. He and Koppel and Jennings tossed this notion around while the 
lopsided numbers added up, then unanimously concluded that the whole showdown 
had been a sucker play, and that Barnett, Gore, et al had fallen for it.
There was more pounding on the hotel door. "Logan?" Devaughn's voice. "Are you 
in there?"
Jack said nothing.
After the reporters' analysis leaked back to the convention, bedlam broke out on 
the floor. Mobs of delegates lurched back and forth like wood chips caught in a 
flood. Jack reached for his phone and called Emil Rodriguez. "Move the 
California question. Now."
Hartmann's opponents were in total disarray. Their entire strategy had come 
unhinged.
Hartmann won the California challenge in a walk. A roar of celebration began to 
come through the hotel room door. Jack opened Logan's door, put a Do Not Disturb 
sign on the outside, and stepped out into the hallway.
"Jack!" Amy Sorenson, her chestnut hair flying, ran toward him through a crowd 
dizzy with celebration. "Were you in there? Did you and Logan come up with 
this?"
Jack kissed her, not caring in the least if her husband was present. "Got any 
pizza left?" he asked. "I'm getting hungry."

8:00 P.M.
A knot of people at the main entrance to the Marriott reared back in alarm as 
the Turtle settled onto the sidewalk. Blaise drummed on the side of the shell 
with his heels as he slid off: Tachyon gave the shell a fond pat before he 
climbed down. "Thank you, Turtle, for a lovely afternoon. It's an elegant city 
when seen from above."
"Any time, Tachy." The shell floated away. "Dr. Tachyon."
The alien turned at that smooth, well-modulated voice with its strong Southern 
accent. "Reverend Barnett."
They had never met, yet recognition was instantaneous. They stood on the steps 
of the Marriott, devouring one another's faces, searching for the key to the 
character of the other man. Leo Barnett was a young man of medium height, blond 
hair, blue eyes, a dimpled chin. It was a nice face, and for an instant the 
Takisian struggled to reconcile the hated image of his dreams with this 
soft-spoken man. Then he recalled the exquisite faces of his kith and kin-all of 
them murdering thugs-and the moment of dislocation passed.
"Doctor, didn't anyone ever tell you that there are some things we don't do in 
the streets because it alarms the children and frightens the horses?"
Humor laced the words and Tachyon, who had tensed for an attack, relaxed. 
"Reverend, I've been on Earth longer than you've been alive, and I don't believe 
I've ever heard that expression."
A woman stepped out of the crowd surrounding Barnett. "It generally refers to 
sex, and you know all about that." Shoulder-length sable hair, cascading onto 
her breast, long sooty lashes fluttering on alabaster cheeks, lashes lifting to 
reveal eyes of a profound midnight blue ...
No, brown!
Reality shifted like a cable car being wrenched off its track. Tach's breath 
seemed to be clogged somewhere between diaphragm and throat. He tottered, 
groping for Blaise's shoulder, and Leo Barnett leaped forward to support him on 
the other side.
"Doctor, are you all right?"
"I've seen a ghost," Tach murmured thickly. The faintness was passing, and he 
lifted his eyes to hers.
"My campaign manager, Fleur van Renssaeler," said Barnett with a nervous glance 
to the woman.
"I know," said Tachyon.
"You're very quick, Doctor." Her opening words had been aggressive, now bitter 
sarcasm laced each syllable.
"You bear your mother's face ..." He quailed slightly under blazing anger in 
those brown eyes. "But her eyes were blue."
"What an extraordinary memory you have."
"There is not a detail of your mother's face that I have forgotten."
"Am I supposed to be pleased by that?"
"I hope so. I am inordinately pleased to see you. Every week for almost two 
years we played." He laughed gently. "I recall you were dreadfully fond of that 
horrid sticky candy corn. My pockets would be gummy for days afterward."
`You never came to our house. My father wouldn't permit it.
Tach felt his jaw sag. "But I mind-controlled the servants. Your mother wanted 
to see you so desperately-"
"My mother was a damn slut. She abandoned my father and her children for you."
"No, that's not true. Your father threw her out of the house."
"Because she was whoring with you!" Fleur's hand lashed out, snapping his head 
around with the force of the blow. Tentatively he touched his burning cheek, 
started to advance on her. "No-"
Barnett laid a hand on Tachyon's shoulder. "Doctor, this conversation is 
obviously upsetting both you and Miss van Renssaeler. I think we should move 
along."
The minister held out his hand to Fleur. Her lips seemed slack, and somehow 
heavier. An aura of sex surrounded her. Barnett handed her into the taxi as if 
he were eager to release her.
"Perhaps sometime we can talk again, Doctor. I confess I'm very curious about 
the religious beliefs of your world. " Leo paused with a hand on the taxi door. 
"Are you a Christian, Doctor?"
"No."
"We should talk."
The entourage was whisked away, Tach staring blankly after the taxi containing 
Fleur.
"What, by the Ideal, was that all about?" The Takisian phrase spoken in Blaise's 
heavily accented English added to Tachyon's sense of disorientation.
Tach pressed steepled fingers to his lips. "Oh, ancestors." He wrapped his arm 
tightly about Blaise's shoulders. "1947."
"No kidding? What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Watch your language."
They started into the hotel and Blaise asked, "K'ijdad, who is the old femme?"
"She's not old . .. a little older than her mother when I lost her. And you've 
got to stop using French and Takisian in the same sentence. It drives me mad."
"Tell me this story," the boy demanded.
Tachyon's eyes flickered from the elevators to the bar. "I need a drink."
The pianist was on duty tinkling out a jazzed-up version of "Smoke Gets in Your 
Eyes."
"Brandy," the alien snapped to a waitress as he passed. "Beer." Blaise drooped 
under a gimlet stare from his grandsire. "Coke," he amended in a subdued tone.
They sat in silence until the drinks were delivered, and Tachyon had a long 
swallow. "It was only a few months after the release of the virus. Blythe had 
contracted the wild card, and was brought to the hospital where I was working. 
She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and I think I loved her from the 
first moment I saw her." Blaise rolled his eyes. "Well, I did," said Tachyon 
defensively.
"So what happened?"
"Blythe's power enabled her to absorb minds. Archibald Holmes recruited her for 
an antifascist organization called the Four Aces. Jack was a member, and Earl 
Sanderson, and David Harstein. Blythe became the repository for the minds of 
Einstein, Oppenheimer, and many many others, mine included. Meanwhile, Jack and 
Earl and David were flitting around the word overthrowing dictatorships, 
capturing Nazis and the like."
"Then in '48 they tried to resolve the China problem. David was the key to the 
negotiations because he possessed a powerful pheromone power. When you were with 
him he could get you to agree to anything. He had Mao and the Kuomintang kissing 
and swearing eternal friendship. Then he and the others left China, and 
naturally the whole thing collapsed."
Tach raised a finger for another brandy. "There was growing suspicion toward the 
wild cards during this period. A lot like today. China gave them the excuse they 
needed. They went after the Four Aces, accusing them of being communists. But it 
was just an excuse. Their real sin was that they were different--more than 
human. We were all called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. 
They wanted the names of all the aces I had treated. I refused, but then-" 
Tachyon took a long swallow of brandy. Somehow this story never got any easier.
"Go on," pushed Blaise, his dark eyes bright with excitement.
In a voice drained of all emotion, Tachyon resumed. "Jack had become a so-called 
`friendly witness.' He told the committee that Blythe had absorbed my mind, my 
memories."
"They put her on the stand and began to grill her. Because of the stress of 
juggling so many minds Blythe was ... fragile. She was about to reveal the other 
aces. I could not allow that to happen. I controlled her, and so broke her mind. 
She became hopelessly insane, and her husband had her committed. She died in a 
sanatorium in 1954."
"Who was the husband?"
"A congressman from New York. There were also three children. Henry Jr. Brandon 
and Fleur. I lost track of them during the years I was roaming Europe."
"Which is when you met George."
"Yes."
"This is so confusing."
"You should have tried living it."
"So this is the ancient history you won't discuss whenever I ask you why you and 
Jack fight' so much."
"Yes. For years I blamed Jack for Blythe's destruction. Then I realized that I 
was the one who destroyed her. Jack was just one of a long line of contributing 
factors: my family for developing the virus in the first place, Archibald Holmes 
for i recruiting her, her husband for rejecting her, Jack for being weak, and 
humans for being venal."
Blaise sucked noisily through his straw, dragging up the last of the Coke. "Boy, 
this is really heavy, you know?"
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"Fleur?" A shrug. "Yeah, I guess."
"I have to see her, Blaise. Explain, set the past straight. Have her forgive 
me."
"Why should you care?"
"Burning Sky, look at the time! I was supposed to meet the Texas delegation five 
minutes ago. Go buy some dinner, put it on the room, and stay out of trouble! 
I've got to change."
The phone was ringing as he entered the room. Snatching it up, Tachyon heard the 
hiss of long distance. An operator's cool, bored tone asked, "Will you accept a 
collect call from Mr. Thomas Downs?"
For an instant, disbelief at the journalist's brass held him silent, and Tach 
could hear faint and far away Digger babbling frantically. "Tachy, you gotta 
listen-"
"Sir, this call has not yet been accepted." Admonishment from the frigid 
operator.
"Tachy, listen! Something terr-"
"Sir!"
"... help me ..."
"Sir, will you accept the charges?"
"... in big trouble!" Digger's voice soared into the soprano range.
"No!" Tachyon slammed down the phone so hard that it gave a ring of protest. He 
was halfway out of his shirt when it rang again.
"Collect call-"
"NO!"
It rang seven more times. After the third time Tach stopped answering. The 
shrill ringing was a drill biting into his head. He dressed quickly in his usual 
elaborate finery. Pale rose and lavender with silver lace. The phone was still 
ringing as he stepped into the hall. For a moment he hesitated. Help me. Help 
him how? Tach gave his head an emphatic shake, and pulled the door shut. Too 
often Digger had embroiled him in the sleazy journalists sleazy little problems. 
Not this time.
I have enough problems of my own.
Spector hadn't been to the store for a year and a half, not since the Wild Card 
Day when the Astronomer went out in a blaze of glory. With a little help from 
hire, of course. The suit he'd bought then didn't last out the day, but then a 
lot of things hadn't made it through that day. The old guy who ran the place had 
seemed okay to him. What the hell, might as well throw hire some more business. 
He couldn't stay at a swank hotel and not have some decent clothes. He'd stand 
out like a joker at a fashion show.
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped in. Before, the store had been 
old, dim, and dusty-like the old man who ran it. Now the place had been 
repainted and new, brighter lighting had been put in. The room even smelled new.
As Spector turned to leave, a voice called out to him, "Hey, come on in, sir. If 
ou're looking for fine clothing at great prices, you've come to' the right 
place. Just tell me--I'm Bob--name's on the sign outside--what you want and I'll 
fix you up in no time."
Spector looked Bob over. He was dressed well enough, although the clothes didn't 
disguise the fact that he was creeping into middle age, but he had a hustler's 
eyes and smile. Spector just wanted to buy some clothes and get out. "I'll need 
two suits, one dark gray and one light gray. Thirty-eight long. Not too 
expensive."
Bob stroked his chin and made a face. "I don't think gray is really your color. 
Something in a tan maybe. Come on over here." He grabbed Spector by the elbow 
and guided him over to one of the mirrors. "Wait just a second."
Spector looked around the store. He didn't see anyone else. It was just Bob and 
him.
Bob trotted back over, holding a tan coat. He turned Spector toward the mirror 
and held the coat up in front of him. "What do you think? Great, huh. And a 
steal at four-hundredand-fifty dollars. Plus alterations, of course."
"I want two suits. Just like I said. One light gray. One dark gray. "
Bob sighed. "Look around outside. You know how many people are wearing gray 
suits? If you want to stand out, make an impression, you have to dress for it. 
Trust me."
Spector wasn't listening. He was breathing evenly and concentrating. Remembering 
the pain. The agony of his own death.
"You okay, mister?"
Spector turned to face Bob and stared into the man's eyes. They linked. Bob 
couldn't look away, and Spector didn't want to. The memory of his death blotted 
out everything else. And he gave it to the man in front of him. His insides 
twisted and burned. Skin ruptured and sloughed off. Muscles tore and bones 
snapped. Spector's death lived again in his mind. And Bob felt it, too. Spector 
shuddered as he recalled his heart bursting. Bob gasped. His legs went rubbery 
and he fell over. Dead. Just as Spector had been before Tachyon brought him back 
to life.
Spector glanced around. They were still alone. He grabbed Bob under the armpits 
and dragged him into one of the dressing booths, then walked back to the rack 
and picked out two gray suits. One dark and one light.
He wrapped them in plastic and headed for the street. "The customers always 
right, Bob. First rule of business."

9:00 P.M.
"The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. 
Not to sound bigoted or nothin'"
"But you do," interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce 
Jenkins's forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff 
over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like 
earthquaketorn Earth. "Not to suggest that you are," Tachyon hastened to add, 
realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political 
convention. "But why are we discussing thirdplace runners, no matter how 
interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett."
"Reverend."
"Eh?"
"Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo's deserving of his, too."
"Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?"
"Yeah. Texas went solidly for the Reverend."
"And you intend to keep it that way?"
"If I can. Now this ain't to say that Gregg Hartmann isn't a good man. He is, 
that's why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths."
"Impossible!"
"Now, don't be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can't 
be too rigid."
"Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in November, 
then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough 
people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, 
Barnett is a one-note candidate."
"No, sir, there you're wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you're 
obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are 
worried about the moral decay of this country."
They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter 
of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates 
dined in the Marriott's coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched 
across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.
Heard the sharp tick of high heels. jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers 
nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the 
pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but 
it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.
"I came for a statement, and to see if I could help." Tachyon shook his head. 
"What?"
She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "Chrysalis."
"What about her?"
"She's dead." The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur's slap. He 
took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of 
Sara's shoulder. "Dead!"
"You mean you didn't know?"
"No ... I ... I've been busy. All day."
"Yeah." Her tone was bitter; then abruptly she dropped a gentle sympathetic mask 
over her pale features. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."
Jenkins tiptoed over. "Doctor, it seems you've had bad news. We'll talk another 
time."
Sara gripped Tachyon's arm with both hands and tugged him toward the elevators. 
"This has been a shock. You're very pale. !Maybe you should lie down."
"I need a drink."
Sara hung on grimly to his arm. "Don't you have something in your room?"
He frowned at her. "Yes."
"Let's ... let's go there." Pale tongue running briefly across those too thin 
lips. "I ... I need to talk to you." Physical vertigo added to his emotional 
vertigo as the elevator shot upward. "Chrysalis." He shook his head. "Tell me."
She did, in quick terse sentences, her pale eyes locked on his lilac ones. She 
seemed to be pressing for a mind contact, and he tightened his control. He 
didn't really want to know what went on behind that intense face.
He led them into the suite. Stood staring into the mirror over the wet bar, a 
hand closed limply about a brandy bottle. Mirrors. Chrysalis had loved mirrors, 
and had filled her boudoir with them.
He pictured the skull head with its trademark swirl of glitter on one 
transparent cheek. Pictured it battered to a bloody pulp. The tink of glass on 
glass was loud in the room.
He turned, and held out the glass, but Sara was gone. Hearing the squeak of a 
mattress, he walked into the bedroom, and stared in bewilderment at her pose. 
Elbows resting on the coverlet. One leg cocked over the other. Skirt hiked to 
mid-thigh. She accepted the drink, and coyly patted the bed next to her. Feeling 
like a man sharing a bench with a spider, he sank warily down.
"Secrets." He sighed and drank. "I suppose Chrysalis at last found the secret 
that killed her."
"Yes." Sara stared rigidly at the far wall. Gave a shake, and placed her hand on 
his arm. It lay there heavy and lifeless. "I know how much this must hurt you. 
You two were very close."
He removed her hand, squeezed it, and sat it aside. "I don't know if I would go 
that far."
The hand crept back, fingers tightening suddenly on the big muscle in his thigh. 
She began to rub him. Tach rolled a nervous eve in her direction. Sweat had 
broken along her hairline, and her lips were compressed into a thin line. She 
sensed his scrutiny, and smiled at him, eyelids half lowered, pouted her lips. 
Tachyon drained his glass. His leg muscle was beginning to cramp under her 
furious assault.
"Another?" He waved the glass. Throaty, husky. "Oh, yes. Please."
They sat drinking in silence. Tachyon felt his guts cramping. "I wonder-JESUS!"
He hit the edge of the bed, slid off onto the floor, brandy sloshing across his 
crotch. Thrust his little finger into his ear, and wiped out the moisture left 
by the sudden thrust of Sara's tongue. It had felt like someone driving a Q-tip 
dipped in icy Vaseline into his ear.
She hung over the bed staring down at him with feverbright eyes. Gasped out, "I 
want you! I want you!"
It was like getting hit with a rake. Bony knees, elbows, pelvis digging into his 
chest, groin, thighs as she flung herself upon him. They thrashed for a few 
moments, Sara dropping inexpert kisses onto whatever part of his anatomy she 
could hit. Tachyon threw her off, and tottered to the far side of the bed.
"What in the hell are you doing?" Tears of shame and rage filled his eyes.
"I want to make love with you."
"If this is some kind of joke, it is in pretty goddamn bad taste! Or actually, 
it's in perfect taste if you go in for cruel Takisian humor."
"What are you driveling about?" she screamed, raking back her hair.
"I'm impotent! Impotent! IMPOTENT!" "Still?" Honest amazement filled the word.
It shredded his last vestige of control. "Yes, fuck you! Now get out! Just get 
the hell out of here!"
Blotchy red patches flamed in her cheeks. Sara flung herself on his chest, hands 
clasped frenziedly behind his neck. "No, please, I cant leave you. I'm next, 
don't you see? Only you can keep me safe!"
"Are you out of your mind? Keep you safe from what?"
"Hartmann! HARTMANN! He killed Andi, he killed Chrysalis, and now he's going to 
kill me!"
"I'm not going to listen to any more of this."
"He's a monster. Inhuman. Evil."
"A year ago you were fucking your brains out with him." Her breath came in harsh 
pants. "He made me."
"Now I've heard everything. You are crazy." Tach threw himself through the 
sitting room, dragging Sara like a recalcitrant foal. Flung open the door. "Out, 
out, out, out."
She ran from him, and threw herself onto the bed. Curled up with a pillow 
clutched to her chest. "No, no, you can't make me. I won't leave. You've got to 
help me," she wailed as he bundled her into his arms, and staggered back to the 
door. "Read me! Go into my mind!" she hissed, clinging to his lapels. "I 
wouldn't touch that cesspool that you call a mind." Fire flared as her nails 
raked across his face. "WHEN I'M DEAD YOU'LL BE SORRY."
"I'm already sorry."
Tach slammed the door, brushed distastefully at his coat, and crossed to the 
bar. Seized the cognac and drank directly from the bottle. Spewed as the heat 
became too much for his throat. He drew a hand across his face, and yelped as 
the liquor entered the cuts left by her nails.
Help me.
You don't want to believe. When I'm dead you'll be sorry!
The bottle exploded against the far wall. "I'M TIRED OF FEELING SORRY!"

11:00 P.M.
Spector combed his hair up and went at the ends with the scissors. Lank brown 
strands fell into the dirty sink. The job was near barber standards. He'd cut 
hair on the side when working his way through school, and had gotten pretty good 
at it. He picked up the cracked hand mirror and checked the neckline in the 
back.
"Not bad, my man," he said to himself. He scooped up a fingerful of skin lotion, 
and rubbed it onto his reddened upper lip. Without the mustache and long hair he 
looked years younger, not much different from his old college self. Only the 
pained eyes were forever changed. With his hair washed and blown dry he'd be 
unrecognizable to anyone who'd met him since he became Demise. Except Tachyon. 
He'd know regardless.
The thought of the little alien knocked him from his normal sullen mood into a 
gnawing rage. Making the hit, that would hurt Tachyon. He nodded to the mirror 
and walked into the living room. The decor was nicer than his apartment in 
Jokertown. The walls were gray-green; the furnishings were mahogany or other 
dark woods. He even picked up occasionalIy. He'd made the move back to Teaneck 
after the Sleeper had roughed him up. Considering the hell that had broken loose 
not long after, it had been a good idea.
He flopped into the black futon and reached for the TV remote control. His 
flight wasn't until ten the next day. There would be plenty of time to pack in 
the morning. He punched up WABC. The set crackled to life and Ted Koppel came 
into view.
"...little was known about this woman with transparent skin who chose to create 
her own kingdom in the center of New York City's Jokertown." Koppel's brows were 
knit together even more tightly than usual. "While police are saying little 
about the apparent murder, it was seemingly a very brutal affair. There is the 
possibility that an ace with abnormal strength was involved. Before giving you 
what limited background we have on this woman named Chrysalis, here's what 
Angela Ellis, captain of the jokertown precinct, had to say earlier today."
The video cut to a drab press area. A short woman with dark hair and green eyes 
stood in front of a nest of microphones. She coughed, then paused, and placed 
her hands palms down on the podium. "The woman popularly known as Chrysalis was 
found dead at her place of business this morning. Should the medical examiner 
determine that a homicide has occurred, this office will of course conduct a 
thorough investigation. We have no further information to give at this time." 
Voices of questioning reporters immediately rose into a roar. Ellis raised one 
hand. "That's it. We'll keep you informed as facts become available."
Spector reached for the bottle of whiskey he always kept by the futon. He 
twisted off the cap and took several swallows. "Shit." He'd never cared one way 
or the other for the bitch, but something about her being dead made him uneasy. 
There was blood and death in the air already, and while that ordinarily made him 
feel right at home he had a gut feeling that he was really going to be putting 
it on the line to make this hit. That was too bad, though. The money from the 
Shadow Fists was almost gone, and he needed another big score. This had dropped 
into his lap and he wasn't going to blow it.
Several more slugs of whiskey and Koppel's familiar monotone relaxed him. He 
drifted off to sleep wondering what the weather was like in Atlanta.
Tachyon hunched at the bar, ankles wrapped about the rungs of the high chrome 
stool. The light reflecting off the hanging wine glasses hurt his aching head, 
but he couldn't find the energy to look away.
Mirrors. The mirrors of the Funhouse shattering as the kidnappers had come for 
Angelface. A skull face reflected in a hundred different angles as he entered 
Chrysalis's boudoir on the upper floor of the Crystal Palace. The invisible lips 
painted a pale pink, the swirl of glitter across one transparent cheek, the blue 
eyes floating eerily in their bony sockets.
He had drunk in both those bars for more years than he cared to remember. Now 
the Funhouse was closed following Des's death a year ago.
What would become of the Palace?
Drunken self-pity brought tears to Tachyon's eyes, and he considered his bereft 
state.
"Hey, buddy?" asked the cheerful young bartender. "Another one?"
"Sure, why not." The bartender set up another brandy, and Tach raised it high. 
"To the lost and mournful dead." Tach drained the glass, scrawled his room 
number across the bottom of the bar bill, slipped off the stool. There was still 
a lot of activity in the lobby even at this hour, but he spotted no one he knew. 
Tachyon considered calling Jack, but he wanted to drink and talk about 
Chrysalis, and the big ace hadn't known her.
His aimless wanderings led him to the floor housing Barnett's party. Behind the 
doors he could hear the low murmur of voices. He stared hard at one door, 
willing Fleur to emerge. It didn't work. His silent scrutiny of the suite drew 
the attention of a Secret Service guard. Tach saw him coming, and stumbled back 
to the elevators.
Back in his own room he stared down at Blaise's tousled head. Sobs shook him as 
he knelt by the bed, and enfolded the sleeping boy in his arms.
Everyone always leaves me. Everyone I love leaves me. I love you so very much. 
Don't ever leave me.

CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday July 19, 1988
8:00 A.M.
He'd been so drunk and upset last night that he hadn't noticed the message light 
on the telephone. Having now arrived at a state where his eyes focused and his 
head felt less like an enemy growth mounted on his shoulders, Tachyon sipped 
Alka-Seltzer and listened to the distant ringing. "Blythe van Renssaeler 
Memorial Clinic."
"This is Tachyon, get me Finn."
"Hi, doc, you must have heard by now."
" Yes. "
"Things are in an uproar here. There was a firebombing at Barnett's mission last 
night, and what I can only describe as free-form demonstrations in Chatham 
Square. I tried to reach you all afternoon."
"I didn't get back to the room until very late."
"I assisted on the autopsy. You want details?" Tachyon sighed. "I suppose I 
must."
Finn ran down the findings. In the background, Tach could hear a sharp four beat 
tapping as the pony-sized centaur danced on nervous dainty hooves. The joker 
physician con cluded with a wry, "It'll sure as hell be a closed-casket 
service."
"Damn, the funeral. When is it?"
"Tomorrow morning at eleven."
"I will of course be there."
"How are things down in your neck of the woods?"
"Confusing. I don't even know the current delegate count." He checked his watch. 
"Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."
Snatching up a hat, Tachyon paused at the bathroom door, and yelled over the 
thunder of running water. "I'm off to breakfast with Jack. Meet me at 
ten-thirty, and we'll go over to the Omni. And be there."
There was no answer. Blaise was either plotting or sulking. Neither was an 
encouraging prospect.
"Ms. Morgenstern." Braden Dulles was younger than she was, but he had this State 
Voice he put on, an authoritative Ben Bradlee rumble like driving over a gravel 
road on a New England winter day, complete with frost crackling and the 
occasional squeak. "You have put this newspaper in a very difficult position."
She shifted in her bed, pulled a wad of pillow closer to her breasts. She had on 
a heavy blue-flannel nightgown. It was how she always did hotels: in winter 
leave the heat down, in summer crank up the air-conditioning and bundle up. She 
liked the insulation a lot of bedding gave her.
She worked her eyelids ponderously up and down. She was normally a morning 
person. But last night after Tachyon had brushed her off--the bastard!-she'd 
been completely out of resources, had no idea what to do but take her chances 
returning to her room, where she slept the sleep of the clinically depressed. 
She turned an eye toward the clock radio on the nightstand. 8:00 A. m. If 
Dulles's call hadn't roused her she might have gone on until afternoon.
When she didn't respond, Braden went on, "It has been of concern to us here that 
you have of late been conducting what appears to be a personal vendetta against 
a major candidate for the presidential nomination."
Bitterness popped like a blister. "Your fair-haired boy, you mean."
"The Post has a tradition of awareness of its responsibilities as the newspaper 
of record in the nation's capital. Senator Hartmann is obviously the best 
qualified candidate at this point in time."
"You think this point in time's a good one to put a psychopathic ace in the 
White House? Christ, all Ronnie Reagan's done is invade some new country where 
we didn't belong every two years. This man-this creature-feeds on human misery, 
Braden."
Anguished silence. She could just see the expression on- his Young Patrician 
face, the constriction around the nostrils, the deepening of the network of 
grooves beyond his age that surrounded his mouth and radiated from the corners 
of his eyes, which he cultivated because they lent him gravitas. As if he'd just 
detected an aroma of dog turd within the sterile hallowed sanctum of the Post.
"We feel your ... obsession ... does credit neither to you as a journalist nor 
to us as a paper. Your latest report, if I may call it that, was simply 
incredible. Even were we inclined to accept such a farrago of wild accusation 
and innuendo, our legal department would never let us print it."
"And this attempt by Leo Barnett to smear Senator Hartmann-really, Sara, how 
could you have lent your name to such a, well, frankly sleazy undertaking?"
"Barnett's people didn't ask me, Braden. I didn't know anything about it, I 
swear to God." She clung to the receiver as if it was the only thing holding her 
up. It was cool talisman hardness on her cheek.
"You told me the allegations were true. Yet within hours Senator Hartmann had 
issued a denial, which we feel to have been quite convincing."
Because you wanted it to be. She tried to envision the Post accepting such an 
offhand denial of dubious dealing from a politician they didn't shine their 
golden light upon. A Nixon, a Robertson, even a Bush; they'd hunt him to the end 
of the earth.
But she could not speak. She had a good reporter's patter when she needed to 
draw people out. Somehow, though, the spoken word always managed to betray her 
when she tried to express something that really mattered to her.
"Finally, Ms. Morgenstern, we are very concerned that you have evinced no 
intention of returning to New York. You are the acknowledged journalistic 
authority on Jokertown. We find it most unsettling that you refuse to take an 
interest in the murder-which involved the use of ace powers, I might add-of one 
of that community's most prominent citizens. One I was given to understand was a 
personal friend of yours. It would seem your story lay there."
"The story's here, Braden. This is bigger than a killing in Jokertown. This 
concerns everybody-you, me, aces, jokers, people in Uganda, the whole world. The 
president has so much power, so many-" She stopped herself before she stumbled 
and fell headlong. That was a reason she'd always preferred the written word; 
the ones you spoke tended to get away from you. She drew a breath.
"Besides, Braden, he's here. Chrysalis's murderer is here. Didn't you read my 
article?"
"Are you suggesting Senator Hartmann personally beat Ms. Jory to death?"
"No. Damn you, Braden, don't be so obtuse. He had it done he used his ace, he 
used his position, what the hell difference does it make? He's still guilty, 
just like a mafia don who orders a hit."
Dulles sighed. "I truly regret that it has come to this. Your personality 
disintegration has seriously degraded your professionalism. We therefore feel it 
is in neither your best interests nor ours for your association with this 
newspaper to continue."
"You're firing me?" Her voice rose toward the ceiling. "Say it, Braden. Just 
have the balls to say it."
"I've said everything that needs to be said, Ms. Morgenstern. I will add my 
personal hope that you will soon seek therapy. You have too much ability to 
throw it away over addiction."
"Addiction?" She could barely produce the word. "Addiction to fear. Addiction to 
excitement, to the thrill of being a central figure in a vast and shadowy and 
menacing mystery. Addiction is the disease of the eighties, Sara. Goodbye."
She heard a click and the white-noise line. In her mind she could see Braden 
Dulles's hands, already scrubbed to a pink-white luster, washing each other in 
air.
She threw the phone across the room and rose from the bed to dress. She felt 
like a cracked porcelain doll. As if any movement, any random breath of air, 
might splinter her all over the carpet.

9:00 A.M.
Tach noticed with a flare of almost guilty pleasure that even among the greats 
of the nation he was still newsworthy.
The discrete hints that he and Jack had dropped yesterday had borne fruit. 
Reporters milled and jostled, ran microphone tests, camera checks. Jack had done 
a nice job of stagemanaging the entire affair, selecting a table flush against 
the low divider separating the atrium coffee shop from the walkway. A tech 
snapped on a floor light, bleaching the big blond ace. Jack squinted, and shaded 
his eyes.
"Bad night?" inquired Tach, sliding into a seat opposite Jack. He kept his voice 
very low to avoid the foam phalluses that were already thrusting in their 
direction.
"Late night. We had that challenge to Rule 9(c) governing the apportioning of 
delegates formerly committed--"
"Jack, spare me the tedious details. Did we win or not?"
"Yes, thanks to me, which set us up to win the California challenge." Jack took 
a sip of coffee, and lit a cigarette. "Do you have any idea how we're going to 
play this scene?"
"No."
"Great," came the sour reply.
The edges of Tachyon's mouth quirked. "I suppose I could just come around the 
table, and give you a great big kiss."
"I'd kill you."
Tach shaded his eyes with a hand, and scanned the crowd, noting the presence of 
Brokaw and Donaldson. Peregrine, who always knew how to time an entrance, came 
flying down from the tenth floor. The beating of her great wings fluttered menus 
and ruined blow-dried hairdos. Cameras swiveled up to document her landing.
Tachyon reached out to her with his telepathy. Good morning, sweet one, ready to 
shill for us?
All ready, Tachy, dearest.
"Mr. Braun, Doctor, aren't you rather unusual breakfast companions?" sang out 
Peri.
"In what way?" asked Tach blandly.
Sam Donaldson picked up the ball, rapping out his question in his sharp staccato 
manner. "Your antipathy for one another is well-documented. In a 1972 interview 
with Time magazine, Doctor, you said that Jack Braun was the greatest betrayer 
in American history."
Jack stiffened, and ground out his Camel. Tachyon felt a momentary regret at 
what he was going to be put through. "Mr. Donaldson, you might note that that 
interview is sixteen years old. People change. They learn to forgive."
"So you've forgiven Mr. Braun for 1950?"
"Yes. "
"And you, Mr. Braun?" sung out Buckley of The New York Times.
"I have nothing to forgive. What I have are regrets. What happened in the 1950s 
was a travesty. I see it happening again, and I'm here to sound the warning. Dr. 
Tachyon and I share more than just a past. We were drawn together because of our 
admiration for Gregg Hartmann."
"Then the senator arranged for your reconciliation?"
"Only by example," said Tach. "He was one of the driving forces behind last 
year's World Health Organization tour to investigate the treatment of wild cards 
worldwide. The senator spoke movingly of reconciliation and the healing of old 
wounds." Tach glanced at Jack. "I think perhaps both of us took that lesson to 
heart."
"We also have another bond," said Jack. "I'm a wild card. One of the first. 
Tachyon's spent forty-two years working among the victims of that virus."
It was a pleasant overstatement, but Tach didn't correct him. It would have 
brought up the fact that for thirteen years, from 1950 until 1963, Tachyon had 
been a useless alcoholic derelict, roaming the streets and gutters of Europe and 
Jokertown. And the reason for his disintegration and deportation had been those 
fateful hearings before HUAC, and Jack's betrayal.
"... and we don't like what's been happening in this country. The hate is back, 
and we fear it."
Tachyon fought free of the memories.
"Then you accuse the Reverend Barnett of fanning the flames of hatred and 
intolerance?" asked a serious-faced young man from CBS.
"I believe Leo Barnett is acting from principle-as he sees it. But so was the 
Nur al-Allah in Syria, and in that sad country I saw innocent jokers stoned to 
death in the streets. Is that anguish something that we wish to see translated 
to our country?" Tach shook his head. "I think not. Gregg Hartmann-"
Is a secret ace, and a killer, came a thin, tight voice from the crowd.
People drew back, repelled by the madness in Sara's narrow face. Tachyon came 
half out of his chair.
"Shit!" muttered Jack.
"What are you going to do, Dr. Tachyon? He's one of yours. One of the devil's 
stepchildren, and only you can stop him." Tears blurred Sara's words.
"Do something. Mind-control her. Something," whispered Jack.
And make a bad situation worse? he shot back in a bitter telepathic message to 
the ace.
The crowd of reporters had turned on the woman like a pack scenting blood. She 
blanched and shrank back.
"Miss Morgenstern! On what ... Do you ... evidence ... does the Post ..."
The clamoring voices rose in intensity. To Tachyon's overstretched nerves the 
sound seemed to take on a physical manifestation, a wave about to break over 
that fragile form.
Sara whirled and vanished into the crowd of interested onlookers. Tachyon stared 
at the eager hungry faces of the press, and bowed his head. They had to be fed.
Mothers of my mother, forgive me, he prayed, and threw Sara to the wolves.
"That unfortunate girl does not deal well with stress," he called in a clear, 
penetrating voice. "Yesterday's revelations concerning her and Senator 
Hartmann-"
"Then there was an affair?" snapped Donaldson.
"No. The child was in love with the senator, and could not accept his continued 
refusal. I think she is torn between love for him, and a desire for revenge. 
Remember, hell hath no fury ..." His voice trailed away.
"Yeah," put in Jack. "I tried to interest the young lady in my charms during the 
tour, but she was obsessed with the senator. Sad," concluded Tachyon. But not as 
sad as what I've just done to her.
"Who the hell are you?" Sara demanded shrilly. The man who had hold of her arm 
ignored her. Or maybe the tumult of questions and rage breaking over them like a 
tsunami drowned out her words.
Something in his manner said he was ignoring her.
The discrete security goons had come out of it first, of course, advancing in 
their dark three-pieces, muttering into throat mikes as they converged on her. 
She was standing there erect and alone, challenging in her tea-green skirt and 
long-sleeved white blouse, chin elevated above a ruff considerably more modest 
than Tachyon's. She let the noise roll off her. She had spilled the truth out on 
the carpet like a turd shining and stinking in the hot TV lights, where it could 
not be overlooked or covered up. Now she would accept the consequences.
A hand caught her wrist. She turned, ready to aim a kick for a gaberdine crotch. 
Instead of a husky young jock, it was a small, gray, balding man with a round 
belly hanging in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. The watchdogs weren't even close.
Now the gray man was towing her out a side door with the modest but irresistible 
authority of an East River tug. The security toughs got caught up in the back 
eddies of delegates and reporters shouting questions at each other. Her last 
view of the function room was Jack Braun staring after her with his face rumpled 
up into a look of Sonny Tufts's bemusement, Tachyon beside him gazing about with 
neurasthenic dismay, like an underfed Regency buck whose man's man just farted 
in the wardrobe.
Her rescuer-or whatever the hell he was-dragged her down a corridor past 
incurious idlers, into a side service passageway. He used the momentum he'd 
imported to spin her around, back to a wall. A pack of reporters charged by, 
down the corridor, baying on the wrong trail.
"Is not the way to go about it," he said. He had the kind of gruff avuncular 
face only TV character actors have. His accent was ... Russian?
Sara lost it. This was simply too strange. She yanked her hand away, panicked 
more by the fact of contact than any ramification.
He pressed in on her. "No! You must listen. You are in very great danger-"
You're telling me, buster. She squirmed past him and raced away, throwing a high 
heel in the process, toppling into the wall, scraping along, supporting herself 
with her hands while she kicked frantically to free herself of the other.
"Little fool!" the man yelled after her. "The truth you have can kill!"
The shoe finally came away, cartwheeling into the far wall. She ran.

10:00 A.M.
Gregg didn't remember sleeping at all during the night. At six, Amy called to 
give him the early morning schedule and remind him of a seven o'clock breakfast 
meeting with Andrew Young at Pompano's. By seven-forty-five he was in conference 
with Tachyon, Braun, and other key lobbyists and delegates about the joker's 
Rights plank and the party platform. At eight-ten, it was minor difficulties 
with the Ohio delegation, which seemed to consider Gregg a favorite-son 
candidate since he'd been born in their state, and felt they deserved privileged 
access to him; eight-thirty was a discussion with Ted Kennedy and Jimmy Carter 
concerning tomorrow's nomination speeches. Amy and John Werthen huddled with him 
to confirm the rest of the morning's schedule, then Gregg spoke briefly with 
Tony Calderone about the progress of his acceptance speech.
Around nine-thirty, Tachyon came storming up complaining that Sara Morgenstern 
had finally gone too far. He informed Gregg of her outburst downstairs. "She's 
entirely insane," the alien raged. "Paranoid, delusions of persecution. We have 
to do something about her."
Gregg agreed with that more than Tachyon could know. She'd become unpredictable 
and dangerous, and he didn't dare use Puppetman to neutralize her. There was too 
much danger of Gimli's interference. With the problems he'd had with Puppetman 
in the last few weeks, he couldn't afford the chance. A public scene would ruin 
everything.
A little after ten, he was finally able to retreat to his room for a few 
minutes. Ellen was away handshaking with delegates and campaigning outside; 
their rooms were blessedly deserted. A headache was pounding against his 
temples, and it had Gimli's voice.
Why worry about Morgenstern? Sure, she's a fucking loose cannon, but she's not 
the problem I am, is she? You could handle her if you dared let Puppetman out. 
Can you feel him yet, Greggie? Can you hear him howling for his fix? I can. You 
will too, any time now.
"Shut up, damn you!" He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard the 
faint echo of his voice.
Gimli laughed. Sure. I'll be quiet for a little while. After
all, I've already got you talking to yourself. Just remember that I'm still 
here, still waiting. But then, I doubt you'll forget that, will you? You can't.
The voice went away, leaving Gregg moaning and holding his head. One problem at 
a time, he told himself. Sara first. He composed himself, reaching for the phone 
and dialing. There was the slight hiss of a long-distance connection, and then 
the phone at the other end rang. "Hartmann in '88," a voice said with a strong 
Harlem accent. "New York office, Matt Wilhelm speaking."
"Furs, how are things up north?"
There was a laugh from the other end of the line. Wilhelm-also known in 
Jokertown as Furs-preferred his joker name, as Gregg knew. "Senator, it's good 
to hear from you. I should have known it was you coming in on this line. 
Everything's going smoothly, if a little slow. We're waiting for the official 
announcement that you're our nominee, then we'll move into overdrive. How's 
Atlanta?"
"Hot and steamy, and awfully warm down on the floor, from what I understand."
"Lots of resistance to the plank," Furs said. Gregg could imagine the joker's 
leonine features set in a scowl. "I expected as much."
"I'm afraid so. But we're going to keep hammering away at it."
"You do that, Senator. In the meantime, what can Furs do for you?"
"I'd like you to make a few phone calls. I could do it myself but I've a meeting 
in a few minutes and Amy and John are tied up with this platform business. You 
or someone on our staff got the time to give me a hand?"
"Absolutely. Go ahead."
"Good. First, check with Cuomo's office-be sure to relay thanks for his help 
yesterday with File and Shroud and find out exactly when he's expected to arrive 
in Atlanta tomorrow. I want to know what arrangements have been made, and be 
sure one of our people picks him up at the airport. Then call our headquarters 
in Albany and have someone there confirm my reservation for the first week in 
August; Amy says she's never heard back from them. I also need you to call and 
make certain the New York apartment's ready for Ellen on Monday time into 
Tomlin, by the way, but John will be calling you with those details."
"Got it, Senator. Anything else?"
Gregg closed his eyes, sinking back into the padded embrace of the couch. "One 
more thing. There's another call." He recited the number he'd memorized before 
leaving New York. "You won't get anything but an answering machine there," he 
told Furs. "Don't worry about it. All you need to do is leave a short message on 
the machine. Just say to book a flight to Atlanta soonest. They'll know what 
that means."
"Book a flight ASAP. No problem. That all?"
"That's all. Thanks, Furs. I'll be seeing you soon."
"Just get us jokers a platform we can stand on. "
"We'll do our damndest. Take care. Give my regards to your staff. We couldn't do 
anything without their help." Gregg placed the receiver carefully in its cradle.
It was done. Mackie would be coming. Gregg hadn't wanted the volatile ace in 
Atlanta, but he had to do something. Mackie should have disposed of Downs 
already; now he could take care of Sara.
Very faintly, a sardonic voice answered him from beneath. But what about me? 
What about me?
"A KGB man hanging out at the Democratic Convention?" Ricky Barnes shook his 
long trim head. "Evervbodv already thinks you're in cahoots with Barnett, but 
maybe you should think about going to work for Robertson. Sounds like something 
his people would come up with, along with raising the dead and knowing where the 
hostages from Flight 737 were being kept in Calcutta."
"That isn't funny, Ricky." She sat on the edge of his tautly made bed, 
methodically tearing a Kleenex into shreds. She spoke without heat. Ricky was 
maybe the first person she'd met in her life who could tease her without causing 
real pain. "Well, I mean, first you pitch your little scene in the midst of the 
Tach'n'Jack love feast. Then you say you're hauled out of the pot you set 
boiling by some old dude in a Mickey Mouse shirt. Who ever heard of a KGB man in 
a Mickey Mouse shirt?"
"What do KGB men wear, Ricky?"
"Rumpled suits and phony Rolexes. I've met KGB men, Sara. So have you."
She tossed the ruined Kleenex on the floor. "Well, who was he, then?"
"Somebody with a hell of a lot more sense than you were showing, sweetheart."
She pulled her legs up on the bed, crossed them, put her head in her hands. 
Ricky watched her from the table, where he had his antique Epson Geneva laptop 
set up. He was wearing a dark-brown pinstripe vest and trousers with a pale-pink 
shirt and brown bow tie. With his elongated face and bighorsey white teeth he 
reminded her of poor Ronnie, Gregg's aide, who always disapproved of his boss's 
liaison with Sara. The Red Army Fraction had executed him when they kidnapped 
Hartmann in Berlin. She blamed Hartmann for his death.
But it was only in appearance that he resembled Hartmann's hapless aide. Ricky 
approved of her. He always did. Sometimes, she suspected, a bit too much.
"Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.
"Hell, yes. Think about what if you're right, Rosie." Rosie was his pet name for 
her; he claimed she looked like an albino Rosanna Arquette. -Standing right up 
there in front of God and everybody and announcing that Senator Gregg's a killer 
ace--can you think of a quicker way to bring him down on your case if he is?"
"I mean it about Hartmann. Everybody treats me as if I'm a leper because I don't 
think Gregg's the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln or something."
Ricky hit his lip and rubbed his chin with his fingertips. He was a pretty fair 
pianist in his spare time, and he had the hands for it, long and thin and fine.
"I have to say it strikes me as kind of improbable. All this ace mind control 
and stuff, how could he have kept it a secret all these years?" She started to 
cloud up; he held one hand protectively between them, fingers outspread. "But 
wait, wait now. You're a damn fine reporter, a damn fine person--I think your 
stories have maybe done more to promote understanding of jokers and their 
problems than Senator Gregg's posturing and his well-publicized handouts; 
Brother Malcolm knew all about what it means when the Man extends a helping 
hand. I know you're not just making this up."
"But still .. still. I know you still feel the loss of your sister very deeply. 
Is there any possibility that might be affecting your judgment?"
She let her face drop between her hands, seeming to hold her head up by her 
almost-white hair.
"When I was a child," she said, "whenever I did something cute or clever, I 
could tell my parents were thinking if only it were Andi. Do you know what I 
mean? When I was bad or clumsy, it was, Andi wouldn't do that. I mean, they'd 
never say anything that horrible, not out loud. But I knew. It was as if I had a 
wild card of my own, a poison psychic gift that let me know what they really 
thought."
She was crying, then, the tears rushing out as if someone had punched a big awl 
through her eyes and hit a giant reservoir of grief. Ricky was beside her on the 
bed, cradling her against his racquetball-trim chest, stroking her hair with 
those splendid fingers, while the mascara eroded from her face and stained his 
Brooks Brothers shirt in big ugly blotches.
"Sara-Rosie-it's all right now, baby, it's all right, we'll get it straightened 
out. Everything will be okay. You're fine, sweetheart, everything's going to be 
fine . ."
She clung to him like a baby opossum, welcoming human contact for one rare 
moment, letting him murmur his soothing words, letting him hold her.
I just hope he doesn't press too far, she thought.
The passengers walking the LaGuardia concourse gave plenty of sea room to the 
thin young man in the faded black jacket. It wasn't just the stale smell of 
sweat emanating from his seldom-washed clothes and body. Mackie was so full of 
excitement at getting The Call that he wasn't able to keep it all in; parts of 
him kept going off into buzz. The subliminals were unnerving people.
He looked up at the TV monitors next to the Eastern gate. The gray alphanumerics 
confirmed once again that his flight was departing on time. He could actually 
see it there through the polarized glass, fat and white and glistening like snot 
in the July morning sun. The paper jacket that held his ticket and boarding pass 
was beginning to wilt in his hand; he didn't want to let go of it, even to slip 
it into a pocket.
Chrysalis was dead, Digger vanished, but he got to kill one who was even better. 
The woman. The Man had told Mackie about her. She had done it with the Man on 
the tour.
They broke up and she got crazy and might try to do something to the Man-his 
Man. He'd wanted to go out and find her as soon as he heard that, put a good 
buzz on and cut her, and watch the blood well up, but the Man said, no. Wait for 
my word.
It had come a half hour ago in the form of a coded call to the Bowery message 
drop.
He was glad there was no smoking on airplanes. He hated smokers: smokers jokers. 
He'd been on an airplane once, when he'd come across from Germany to be close to 
the Man.
He held his pass up to his face, opened it, shuffled through it. He could barely 
read the red type, and not just because it was blurred. He hadn't gotten what 
you called a good education in Germany. He never learned to read real well, even 
though he did learn to speak English. From his mother. The whore.
The ticket had been waiting for him when he asked at the Eastern counter. The 
clerk there was afraid of him. He could tell. She was a fat nigger bitch. She 
thought he was a joker.
You could see it in those calf-stupid eyes. People always thought he was a 
joker. Especially women.
That was probably why the Man sounded funny. That woman after him. Women did 
that. Women were shit. He thought of his mother. The fat, cognac-swilling whore. 
The bottleneck stuck in her mouth in his mind turned to a fat nigger cock. He 
watched it slide in and out for a while, moistened his lips.
His mother had fucked niggers. She'd fucked anybody with the ready, in Hamburg's 
Sankt Pauli district. ReeperbahnstraBe. Where he'd grown up. One of them had 
knocked her up. When she got drunk and beat Mackie up, she told him his father 
was a deserter, a GI Stockholm-bound from 'Nam. But his father was a general. He 
knew.
Mackie Messer was maximum bad. His father couldn't have been just anybody, could 
he?
His mother had abandoned him; naturlich. Women did that. Made you love them so 
they could hurt you. They wanted you to put that man-thing in them so they could 
take it away:
bite it off. He tried to imagine his mother biting off the huge black dick, but 
it dissolved into tears that streamed down his face and dripped off his chin 
onto the collar of his Talking Heads T-shirt.
His mother had died. He cried for her again.
"Eastern Airlines Flight 377, for Raleigh-Durham and Atlanta, will now begin 
boarding passengers holding passes for rows one through fifteen," the ceiling 
said to him. He wiped away tears and blew his nose on his fingers and joined the 
big flow. He was going where he was wanted, and was content.
Spector stood in the jet's cramped restroom and splashed some water from the 
sink over his face. His stomach was churning and his skin was cold. He'd gone 
into the bathroom hoping to throw up, but no luck. He was so nervous he couldn't 
even manage to take a leak.
There was an impatient knock at the door.
"I'll be out in a minute," Spector said, drying the water from his face with his 
coat sleeve.
Another knock. Harder this time. Spector sighed and opened the door.
A hunchbacked joker in a Talking Heads T-shirt was standing outside. He pushed 
past Spector and closed the door. The little creep's eyes were like something 
dead, even worse than Spector's.
"Fuck you, too, shrimp." Spector clutched his way back to his seat without 
waiting for a reply.
It was the first time he'd ever flown. The plane was much smaller than he'd 
expected and was getting bounced around by what the captain called "some minor 
turbulence." He'd already put away two little bottles of whiskey and asked the 
stewardess to bring a couple more. She hadn't gotten back to him, though. He was 
sitting between a guy who had been a helicopter pilot in Vietnam and some 
reporter. The reporter was playing around with a lap-top computer, but the 
ex-pilot hadn't stopped chattering since they boarded.
"You see that redhead over there?" Spector followed the line of his finger to a 
woman a few rows away who was looking over at them. Her lipstick and tight knit 
dress were bright crimson. Her eyes were green and heavily made up. She was 
licking her lips in an exaggerated manner. "She wants me. I can tell. Wants me 
bad. Ever make it in a plane before?"
"Nope." Spector was clacking the two empty bottles together in his sweaty palm.
The ex-pilot leaned back, brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, and sucked in 
his gut. "Gonna play it cool, though." He looked out the window and nudged 
Spector. "You see those black dots out on the wing. That's where the rivets have 
been working back and forth. God, I hate flying in these death traps. I saw one 
miss the runway at National in Washington once. Nobody walked away from that 
one. If the impact doesn't get you, the fire and poison gas will. I was safer 
back in 'Nam."
Spector slipped the bottles into his suit pocket and turned to look for his 
stewardess. She was nowhere in sight. Probably in first class sucking off some 
rich shithead. He'd been an idiot to fly coach, but was a prisoner of his 
middle-class upbringing. "Time to make the big move," the ex-pilot said. He made 
eye-contact with the redhead and walked slowly to the rear of the plane. She 
smiled back at him and nodded, then started giggling when he disappeared into 
the restroom.
"Don't let him fool you," said the reporter, without looking up. He was in his 
early thirties, about Spector's size, and already balding. "These babies are 
safe as they can be."
"Really," Spector said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
"Yeah. He could tell you're a white-knuckler. Just having some fun with you, I 
expect." The reporter folded up his computer and looked over at the redhead. 
Hope he has fun jerking himself off.
The stewardess, a blonde with cropped hair, who seemed slightly too large for 
her uniform, handed Spector a plastic cup of ice and two more miniature Jack 
Blacks. "Thanks," he said, fishing in his wallet for a small bill. He had one 
bottle opened and poured before she could make change.
"You going to Atlanta for the convention?" The reporter asked.
"Uh, no." Spector took a long, cool swallow. "Not really into politics myself. 
Got other business."
"Not into politics?" The reporter shook his head. "This could be the most 
exciting convention since New York in '76. It'll be a real dogfight. Me, I'm 
betting on Hartmann." The reporter sounded like someone who'd gotten a tip at 
the racetrack.
"Funny things can happen. Especially in politics." Spector drained the glass and 
opened the other bottle. A warm, empty feeling spread comfortably through his 
insides. "If I were you, I wouldn't bet the farm."
The ex-pilot stalked slowly up the aisle, his hands thrust deep into his 
pockets. He glared at the redhead. The plane lurched and he bumped into the 
hunchbacked man. The joker's hands seemed to blur for a moment, and Spector 
thought he saw bits of dust spray up from the armrest. He hoped it was just the 
Jack Black kicking in.
"No such thing as a sure thing," Spector said.

11:00 A.M.
Five television sets were blaring in the living room of the suite the Hartmann 
contingent had taken as staff headquarters, all tuned to different stations. On 
the screen nearest Gregg,
Dan Rather was holding forth with a patriarchal Walter Cronkite, back on the air 
for special convention coverage. Cronkite, as always, sounded the way you'd 
expect God would sound.
"... perception is that despite the majority recommendation, Hartmann simply 
isn't strong enough to guarantee passage of the joker's Rights plank. Does this 
indicate that Hartmann isn't strong enough to win once the delegates are 
released from their first-vote obligations; that Barnett, Dukakis, Jackson, or a 
dark horse like Cuomo may eventually emerge as the nominee?"
"Walter, no one has a lock on this convention. The closeness of the primary 
results showed that. Hartmann is seen as a Northern liberal who can't win in the 
South, and frankly, his long involvement with joker causes is a liability 
outside the coasts and metropolitan areas. Barnett has Southern appeal and could 
woo voters from Bush, especially among the fundamentalist factions. Still, he's 
too conservative and strongly religious for the Democratic constituency. Dukakis 
is Mr. Bland, with nothing particularly against him, but nothing particularly 
for him. Jackson has charisma, but the question remains whether he can win 
outside cities with large black populations. Gore, Simon, Cuomo or any dark 
horse's only hope is a deadlock convention that turns to a compromise candidate. 
All this is reflected in the bitter platform fight. Of course-"
Gregg twisted the knob, turning off the sound in midsentence. The other sets 
babbled on. "Rather has his head up his ass," John Werthen commented. "The right 
vice-presidential candidate and-boom-there goes any regional weakness."
"C'mon, they all know that," Tony Calderone threw in from across the room. 
"They're just going for drama. Blame their writers."
Gregg nodded tiredly to no one in particular. Puppetman was quiet, Gimli seemed 
to be gone for the moment, and Mackie would be on his way soon, if not already 
in flight. He felt drained, lethargic.
The staff meeting had been going for an hour. Plastic cups of cold coffee 
sprawled everywhere, floating old cigarette butts; stacks of paper spilled from 
table to floor, Danishes were petrifying in cardboard boxes stacked on the 
floor. Gregg's staff bustled through the blue-tinged air, a half dozen 
conversations competing with the TV sets.
Amy came through the hall door in a rush. "Barnett's made it official," she 
announced as everyone turned to her. "The minority report's not only against any 
joker's Rights plank, Barnett's personally calling for a return to the Exotic 
Laws."
The room was loud with disbelief. With the surging emotions, Gregg felt 
Puppetman for the first time that day. "That's crazy," Tony said. "He can't be 
serious."
"Too damn stupid. It doesn't have a chance of being adopted," John agreed.
Amy shrugged. "It's done. You should see the convention floor-goddamn chaos. 
Devaughn's going nuts trying to keep things calm with our delegates."
"Barnett's not worried about the floor. It's the outside convention he wants to 
influence," Gregg told them.
"Sir?"
"The jokers outside the Omni, in Piedmont Park. When they hear the news, they're 
going to explode." More fodder for his anti-joker rhetoric. Puppetman stirred 
below at the thought, rising. Gregg pushed him back.
"He'll lose the delegates on the fence. They'll think he's too militant." John 
again.
Gregg waved a hand. "He's a one-issue candidate: the jokers. He's obsessed."
"The man's not rational." "That only gets said here."
A quick laugh skittered around the room. Gregg swung to his feet and tugged his 
tie into place, running fingers through gray-flecked hair. "Okay. You folks know 
where to start," he said. "If Barnett's going to start pushing, we have to push 
right back. Get on the phones. Start using all the influence we have. What we 
need to do is get all the neutrals out of their corners. We're all agreed that 
Barnett's course will lead to greater violence out on the streets, to say 
nothing of the lack of compassion it shows. Tell 'em, pressure 'em, convince 
'em. Get all our people doing the same. Amy, you might see if you can set up a 
meeting with Barnett for me; maybe what he's really after is a compromise. In 
the meantime, I need to touch base with Ellen and see how she's doing."
"Then I'm going to see if I can do any good outside." The last words held a 
strange sense of anticipation, a feeling he hadn't expected. Gregg began to 
wonder if Puppetman was buried as deeply as he thought.
12:00 NooN
Spector followed the reporter into the men's room. The concourses were crammed 
with people, and he was sure that the man hadn't noticed he was being tailed. 
Spector didn't know the reporter's name. He preferred it that way when he was 
going to kill someone.
The reporter went to the far end of the busy bathroom and took the last stall. 
Spector walked calmly over to the one that adjoined it and closed the door. He 
felt sort of bad about this.
But the guy had shot off his mouth about how tight security was going to be at 
the hotel, and how he'd greased a lot of palms to get his room there. These were 
things Spector hadn't taken into account. He hadn't had time to make any plans. 
He usually played things by ear anyway.
Spector heard the pages of a magazine being turned in the next stall, but no 
sounds of progress. He leaned down to make sure no one was close enough to see 
what he was up to. All the pairs of feet were facing toward the mirrors or 
moving toward the exit. He took a deep breath and slid off the toilet onto his 
back. He could feel the cold, damp tiles through his suit. Spector grabbed the 
metal wall between the stalls and hauled himself under.
The reporter folded up his magazine and looked down. He managed to blink a few 
times before Spector locked in. His death experience rushed unchallenged into 
the reporter's mind. The man dropped the magazine and keeled over to one side, 
saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. The man's pants were crumpled 
around his ankles. Spector fished into the pockets and pulled out his wallet, 
then slid back into his own stall, and up onto the toilet seat. He waited 
several moments for some sound indicating he'd been seen. There was only the 
incessant noise of shoes on tile and running water, punctuated by an occasional 
flush.
Spector flipped open the wallet. Everything he figured he'd need was 
there-driver's license, a non-photo press card, Social Security card. The lack 
of ID would make it hard for the cops to identify the corpse. They'd probably 
figure that some opportunist lifted the wallet before calling them in. Things 
were going better than usual. He stood and flushed the toilet, then opened the 
door and walked to the mirror. He lifted his chin and turned his head side to 
side. Sharp and cool, he thought. He winked at the mirror and smiled crookedly. 
If everything worked out, he'd be on a plane back to Jersey tomorrow. And the 
Democrats would have one less hat in the ring.
It was as if New York's Jokertown had been turned upside down and dumped on the 
Atlanta streets.
Every large city has its small version of a jokertown, but Atlanta had never 
witnessed this kind of display. A blinding sun burned from cloudless blue onto a 
sea of signs, masks, and strangely distorted bodies. The crowd-estimated by the 
authorities at 15,000--had marched from Piedmont Park and besieged the Coliseum. 
Ranks of police and National Guardsmen watched, waiting.
Mid-morning, when it was apparent that the majority report was not going to be 
quickly adopted, a bonfire had been started just down from the Omni. Before the 
encouraging cameras, shouting and chanting jokers burned their masks in the 
flames. A Flying Ace Glider sailed from the crowd a little too close to the 
flames. The styrofoam melted, the wings turned brown, shrunken and deformed. A 
joker picked up the smouldering mess. "Hey, a Fucking Flying joker!" he shouted. 
The rest of the jokers picked up the bitter humor. Gliders all over the area 
sailed into the bonfire or were altered by holding them over Bic lighters.
The Atlanta police unwisely chose that moment to clear the area. A double line 
of helmeted officers hit the ranks of demonstrators. The jokers predictably 
shoved back: rocks were thrown, someone's minor ace sent a few police sprawling, 
and suddenly it was a full-fledged melee. Jokers, reporters, and bystanders were 
clubbed indiscriminately.
The Turtle appeared late in the fray and bellowed for order. His telekinetic 
power forcibly pushed apart the remaining jokers and police. Some sixty people 
were arrested, and though the injuries were largely minor, the shots of bloodied 
heads were spectacular.
The mood of the demonstrators, already fragile, turned ugly.
A few blocks from the convention site, the jokers reformed. Fire hydrants were 
opened by the jokers to abate the day's heat; each time, the police moved in to 
shut them off again but avoided direct confrontations. Taunts were exchanged 
across the lines.
A counter demonstration by the KKK arrived downtown in the late morning, 
producing scattered skirmishes between clansmen and jokers in the streets. If 
anything, the Klan was more brutal than the police: shots were reported, and 
jokers were treated for gunshot wounds at the local hospitals. Wildfire rumors 
spread through the crowd that two jokers had died, that the police were not 
arresting KKK members and had in fact let them through the barricades.
At noon, word arrived that Leo Barnett was calling for a return to the Exotic 
Laws. Barnett was crucified in effigy in front of the Omni. The Turtle's shell 
hovered overhead as if herding the demonstrators, keeping a clear space between 
jokers and police.
"I don't like it, Senator," Billy Ray told Gregg as they stepped from the limo 
near the barricades; other secret service men in three-piece suits flanked them. 
The joker crowd bristled with shouts and curses. "I don't think this is a good 
idea."
Gregg grimaced, irritated. He gestured harshly at the ace. "And I'm getting 
tired of people telling me what I should do." Ray's mouth tightened into a hard 
line with the rebuke. Before Ray could answer, a shadow fell over them and a 
voice boomed from loudspeakers. "Senator! Hey, you come out to help?"
The noise brought the cameras around. Gregg waved up at the Turtle's shell-the 
Turtle had a squadron of Turtleshaped Flying Ace Glider frisbees hovering around 
him like electrons around a nucleus; a few melted Fucking Flying jokers were 
mixed in with the group. "I was hoping we might keep things calm, at least. I 
know you're doing what you can."
"Yeah. Frisbee tricks. Latest in crowd control." The frisbees began whirling 
faster, looping in intricate patterns. "Think you can get me into the crowd?"
"No problem." Frisbees rained on the pavement. The shell dipped gracefully, 
banking behind the barricades and swiveling so that it faced into the crowd. The 
loudspeakers hissed as the volume was nudged higher. "OKAY, MOVE THE BARRICADES 
ASIDE. MAKE A PATH FOR THE SENATOR OR I'LL HAVE TO MAKE IT FOR HIM. C'MON, 
PEOPLE!"'
Hovering at head height, the Turtle eased through the barricades and into the 
jokers like a plow. Gregg stepped forward in his wake. Carnifex, the secret 
service people, and several of the police followed. Reporters and cameramen 
jostled for position.
Gregg was recognized immediately. The chant began to rise on either side of the 
Turtle and his entourage. "Hartmann! Hartmann!" Gregg smiled, reaching out to 
brush the hands that stretched toward him from the front ranks. "Hartmann! 
Hartmann!" He was beaming, his jacket off and his tie loosened, a patch of sweat 
darkening his spine: The Candidate At Work. He knew the scene would be featured 
in all the evening reports.
Inside, he was not so complacent.
The crowd was charged with emotional energy. The current was nearly visible to 
him, pulsing and surging, and it drew Puppetman like a lure. He could feel the 
power strengthening, rising, growing. Let me out, it told him. Let me taste.
There's Gimli, he reminded Puppetman. Remember '76. As if Gregg had spoken an 
invocation, Gimli's faint voice echoed. I remember '76, Hartmann. I remember it 
very well. And I also remember what happened yesterday with Ellen. Tell me, how 
did you like being the fucking puppet? Go on, let your friend out. I might not 
stop you this time. Of course, if I did, he might get mad. Maybe Puppetman would 
walk you around again. The news services would all love that.
Puppetman snarled at Gimli, but Gregg shivered behind his smile. Puppetman shook 
the bars of his cage as the jokers' energy shimmered around them. Gregg held the 
doors shut with an effort.
"Hartmann! Hartmann!"
He smiled. He nodded. He touched. The temptation to let Puppetman out and ride 
with him was maddening. In that, Gimli was right-Gregg wanted it too. He wanted 
it as much as he wanted anything.
The Turtle came to a halt in the middle of International Boulevard near the 
effigy of Barnett. "Get on, Senator," he said. The shell swayed lower until it 
was only a foot above the pavement. Gregg stepped up; Billy Ray and the others 
circled the Turtle.
An enormous shout went up as he climbed the shell. Sensitive despite his burying 
of Puppetman, he was nearly staggered by the emotional impact of their massed 
adulation. Gregg slipped and nearly fell; he felt the Turtle lift him with an 
almost tender push. "Jeez, Senator, I'm sorry. I guess I wasn't thinking-"
Gregg stood on top of the shell. Joker faces peered at him, pressing against the 
Turtle's telekinetic barrier. The sound of their cheering echoed from the Omni 
and the WCC, deafening. He shook his head, smiling in the modest, half-shy way 
that had become the Hartmann trademark during the long campaign. Gregg let the 
chant go on, feeling the insistent beat hammer at him.
Puppetman rode with it. Though Gregg held him in, he could not keep the power 
from rising to the surface of his mind. He looked out at the jokers and saw 
familiar faces among them: Peanut, Flicker, Fartface, Marigold, and the one 
called Gravemold, who had finally brought down Typhoid Croyd. Puppetman saw them 
too, and the power slammed hard against the mindbars, growling and tearing.
Gregg trembled with the effort of controlling the ravenous personality, and knew 
he could not stay out here long. His hold was crumbling under the assault of 
their emotions.
(Brilliant, undiluted primary colors, swirling all about him. Puppetman could 
almost touch them and see them sway like tinted smoke ... )
Gregg raised his hands for silence. "Please!" he shouted, and heard his 
amplified voice rebound from the buildings around them. "Listen to me. I 
understand your frustrations. I know four decades of ill treatment and 
misunderstanding are aching to be released. But this isn't the way. This isn't 
the time."
It wasn't what they wanted to hear. He felt their distaste and hurried. "Inside 
that building, we're fighting for jokers' rights." (... shouts of encouragement: 
aching green and knife-edged yellow ...) "What I'm asking is that you help me in 
that fight. You have a right to demonstrate. But I tell you that violence in the 
streets will be used as a tool against you. My opponents will point and they 
will say: 'You see, jokers are dangerous. We cant trust them. We can't let them 
live anywhere near us.' Now's the time for all jokers to finally cast off their 
masks, but you must show the world that the face underneath is the face of a 
friend."
(... the shaded currents turning muddy brown with confusion and uncertainty. The 
brightness dimmed ...) With me, you'could do it. Easily. Puppetman mocked him. 
Look out there. Together, we could turn this around. We could end the 
demonstration. You'd walk away a hero. Just let me out.
Gregg was losing them. Even without Puppetman's direct link, he knew that. Gregg 
Hartmann was suddenly saying the same words they'd heard all along from everyone 
else. There was no magic anymore. No Puppetman.
(... shifting to a dark, somber violet: a dangerous hue, a feeding color. 
Puppetman screamed ...)
Gregg had to leave. The emotions, like a storm-tossed tide battering the shore, 
eroded the tenuous hold on his power. Puppetman would leap out.
He had to end it. Had to get away from the feast spread before his power.
"I'm asking-begging-you to help those who are down there on the floor. Please. 
Don't let anger ruin it all."
It was a horrible, abrupt ending; Gregg knew it. The crowd stared at him, 
silent. A few tried to begin the chant again, but it died quickly. "Get me 
down," Gregg whispered.
The Turtle lifted him slightly and lowered him to the concrete. "Let's get out 
of here," Gregg said. "I've done all I can do." Puppetman clawed at Gregg in 
desperation, lashing out in his mind like a mad animal. The Turtle backed slowly 
through the crowd toward the waiting limo. Gregg followed, frowning. He saw and 
heard nothing of what was in front of him. It took all of his concentration 
simply to hold Puppetman in.

1:00 P.M.
He'd been in the cab for more than an hour. Traffic was snarled almost as soon 
as they left the airport. Cars were jammed bumper to bumper, horns blaring, all 
the way into downtown. Pedestrians, mostly jokers, were massed in the streets. 
Some wore masks. Some carried signs. All were in a dangerously surly mood. More 
than once they had rocked the cab as it cruised slowly through them. Spector had 
given the driver an extra c-note to get him within a block of the hotel. Judging 
by the grumbling from the front seat, the cabbie was having second thoughts in 
spite of the money.
The driver's license had been easy. He'd doctored them before. After removing 
the lamination, he'd carefully razored out the reporter's photo and replaced it 
with one of his own.
Then he'd used a laminating machine at the airport to finish the job. The 
reporter, his name had been Herbert Baird, was close to the same height, weight, 
and age as Spector. Right now, though, getting caught with fake ID was the least 
of his worries. Spector just wanted to get to the Marriott in one piece.
A joker with huge folds of wrinkled, pink skin jumped onto the hood and waved a 
sign that said "NATS ARE RATS" on one side and "WHAT ABOUT US?" on the other. 
There was chanting up ahead. Spector couldn't make out what they were saying.
"Far as we go, mister," said the cabbie. "I ain't playing joker-bait for a 
hundred dollars or a hundred thousand."
"How far to the hotel?" Spector had his luggage in the back seat with him. He'd 
figured it would be a mess downtown, and he didn't want to spend any more time 
than absolutely necessary picking through a crowd of pissed-off jokers.
"About two blocks straight ahead." The driver looked around nervously as one of 
the taillights was kicked in. "I'd move it if I were you."
"Right." Spector opened the car door carefully and stepped out onto the crowded 
sidewalk. Some of the jokers made faces at him or raised their fists, but most 
didn't give him any trouble. He moved forward slowly, unhappily aware that his 
new suit and luggage would make him conspicuous, and a likely target.
After about ten minutes of pushing and shoving, the hotel was just across the 
street. Spector was covered in sweat and starting to smell like the freaks 
around him. A joker with needle-like fingernails stepped in front of him and 
took a swipe at his suitcase, shredding one side. Spector caught his eye and fed 
him just enough death-pain to make the joker collapse. He didn't want to risk 
stirring up this mob with a killing. Hot as it was, these bimbos wouldn't think 
twice about someone passing out.
The crowd was beginning to break up, doubtless to re-form somewhere else, as he 
stepped into the hotel lobby. It was open all the way to the roof. The 
building's curves reminded him of the inside of something dead. Spector took a 
breath of cool air and walked over to the security area. Herbert Baird, you're 
Herbert Baird, Herbert Baird, he thought.
There were several uniformed cops and suited men with earpieces waiting for him. 
"Identification, please," said one of the cops.
Spector pulled out his wallet, trying consciously to relax, and handed over the 
driver's license. The cop took it and passed it over to a man sitting at a 
computer terminal. The man typed for an instant, his fingers blurring on the 
keys, then paused, and finally nodded.
"Can I have your luggage, Mr. Baird?" The officer looked at the claw marks on 
the side. "A bit rough out there, eh?"
"Plenty more than what I'm used to." Spector smiled. They were bored and not 
paying much attention to him. He was going to get in.
The officer set the suitcase onto the x-ray machine and pointed to a metal 
detector. "If you'll please walk through, sir." As he stepped under, the metal 
detector's alarm beeped. Spector stopped dead and reached slowly into his 
pocket. He could feel at least twenty people staring at him. He pulled out a 
fistful of change and handed it to the cop. He'd needed it for the laminating 
machine. "Mind if I try again?"
The cop motioned him forward with a slow sweep of his hand. Spector stepped 
through noiselessly and sighed. The officer reached around and handed him his 
change. Spector pocketed it and smiled again.
"Your bag's right there." The cop pointed and then turned back to the hotel 
entrance.
Spector picked up his suitcase; it was heavy and almost slipped out of his 
sweaty palm. He walked slowly across the lobby to the registration desk. There 
weren't many suits that didn't have bulges under them. Getting his room took 
longer than it should have. The clerk was a fat officious prick who gave him the 
fish-eye when he said he'd be paying in cash. The little creep was trying to 
impress the Secret Service boys or something equally stupid. It was probably his 
once-in-alifetime chance to be a big cheese. Spector would come back some day 
and drop the guy. He snatched the key when the clerk finally offered it, and 
headed quickly for the elevators.
He was almost there when he heard someone call out. "James. James Spector. Hey, 
Specs." The voice sounded familiar, but that wasn't necessarily good. He turned 
around slowly. The man walked up to him smiling and held out a hand. He wore an 
ash-gray suit and had carefully styled hair. He was a couple of inches shorter 
than Spector, but much more muscular.
"Tony C." He let out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. "No way this is 
happening." He and Calderone had grown up together in Teaneck, but Spector had 
lost track of him years ago.
Tony reached down, grabbed Spector's hand, and gave it a firm shake. "My main 
man. The pick-and-roll prince. What are you doing here?"
"Uh, lobbying." Spector coughed. "What about you?"
"I work for Hartmann," Tony replied. Spector opened his mouth; shut it quickly. 
"Hard to believe, I know. But I'm his top speech consultant." He rubbed his 
palms together. "I always did have a good line."
"Especially for the girls." Spector shuffled uncomfortably. Apparently, none of 
the cops who'd checked his ID card had heard Tony, but he still felt exposed. 
"Look, it's great to see you, but I'd like to get settled in. It's a real zoo 
outside, I tell you."
"If you think it's a zoo out there, you should see what's going on inside." Tony 
slapped Spector on the shoulder. There was real warmth in the gesture, the kind 
Spector hadn't been exposed to in years. "What's your room number?"
Spector held up his key card. "1031."
"1031. Got it. I want to have dinner while you're down here. We've got plenty to 
go over." Tony shrugged. "I don't even know what you've been doing since high 
school."
"Fine. I've got plenty of time to kill while I'm down here," Spector said. The 
elevator pinged behind them. Tony backed away and waved. "See you later." 
Spector tried to sound like he didn't dread the idea. This was turning out to be 
weirder than Freakers on New Year's Eve.
Hiram was hosting a reception in his suite at the Marriott. Gregg was supposed 
to put in an appearance, so the rooms were packed with New York delegates and 
their families. Most of the suites Tachyon had entered stank of cigarettes and 
old pizza. This one stank of cigarettes, but the trays dotted strategically 
through the rooms held tiny quiches and piroshki. Tach snagged one, and the 
flaky pastry exploded in his mouth, followed quickly by the rich flavor of its 
mushroom filling.
Brushing crumbs from his fingertips and the lapels of his coat, Tach reached up 
and patted Hiram on the shoulder. The big ace was dressed with his usual flair, 
but circles hung like bloated bruises beneath his eyes, and his skin had the 
unhealthy look of moist dough.
"Don't tell me you had time to slip down to the kitchens and cook all this," 
teased Tachyon.
"No, but my recipes . ."
"I suspected as much." Tach bent and flicked a crumb from the top of his patent 
leather pump with the edge of his handkerchief. When he straightened, he had 
gathered his courage. "Hiram, are you all right?"
The word exploded in a sharp puff. "Why?"
"You iook unwell. Come to my room later, and I'll check you over."
"No. Thank you, but no. I'm fine. Just tired." A smile creased the broad face as 
if it had been abruptly painted on by a cartoon animator.
Tachyon expelled a pent-up breath, shook his head as he watched Hiram bustle 
away to greet Senator Daniel Moynihan. The alien circulated, smiling, shaking 
hands-it still struck him as an odd custom even after all these years. On Takis 
there were two extremes: limited contact because between telepaths casual 
touching was repugnant; or between close friends and relatives the full embrace. 
Either choice caused problems on Earth. The light touch seemed snobby, and the 
full embrace raised homophobic reactions in the males of this planet. So Tachyon 
mused, and watched his gloved hand being swallowed again and again by the eager 
clasping fingers of the humans who engulfed him.
On a sofa set beneath one of the windows a man sat surrounded by three laughing 
women. The youngest sat on his knee. Behind him her sister leaned in, and twined 
her arms about his neck. Next to him on the sofa was a pretty grayhaired woman. 
Her dark eyes were affectionate as they rested on his face. There was a warmth 
in the scene that seemed to touch the emptiness that Tachyon felt in his own 
life.
"Come on, Daddy," pleaded the youngest. "Just one little speech." Her voice 
altered slightly, gaining in sonority and depth. "What is it that you would 
impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honor in one eye, and 
death i'th'other, and I will look on both indifferently; for, let the gods so 
speed me as I love the name of honor more than I fear death. "
"No, no, no." The man punctuated each word with a shake of the head.
"Julius Caesar might not be the best choice for a political convention," said 
Tachyon softly. Four sets of dark eyes regarded him; then the man lowered his 
gaze and his fingers combed nervously through his gray-shot beard. "Pardon my 
intrusion, but I could not help overhearing. I am Tachyon."
"We sort of guessed," said the girl behind the sofa. She surveyed the Takisian's 
brilliant outfit of green and pink, and tossed a droll look to her sister.
"Josh Davidson." The man indicated the woman beside him. "My wife, Rebecca, and 
my daughters, Sheila and Edie."
"Charmed." Tachyon brushed his lips across the back of three hands.
Edie chuckled, her gaze flickering between her father and sister. Emotions 
swirled about the little party. There was something just beneath the surface 
that Tachyon was missing, but deliberately missing. People had their secrets, 
and just because Tachyon could read them didn't mean he had the right. Another 
lesson learned after forty years on Earth was the necessity of filtering. The 
cacophony of untrained human minds would soon have driven him mad if he hadn't 
lived huddled behind his shields.
"Now I recognize you," said Tachyon. "You were brilliant last winter in Doll's 
House."
"Thank you."
"Are you a delegate?"
"Oh, god, no." The woman laughed. "No, my daughter, Sheila, is our 
representation."
"Daddy's a bit of a cynic where politics are concerned," said the older sister. 
"We were lucky to get him down here at all."
"Keeping an eye on you, young lady."
"He thinks I'm still ten," she confided with a wink to the Takisian.
"A prerogative of fathers." Davidson was staring so intently up at him that 
Tachyon wondered if this particular father was also sending him a warning-touch 
my daughters and lose your nuts. For his own amusement Tach decided to push it. 
He turned his blazing smile on the lovely Davidson daughters. "Perhaps I might 
buy the ladies Davidson lunch tomorrow?"
"Sir," said Sheila severely, but her eyes were dancing. "Your reputation 
precedes you."
Tach laid a hand over his heart, and faltered, "Oh, my fame, my lamentable 
fame."
"You love it," said Davidson, and there was a funny faraway expression in his 
expressive eyes.
"A condition that we perhaps share, Mr. Davidson?"
"No, oh, no, I think not."
There were polite murmurs all around, and Tach moved on. He felt eyes boring 
into the middle of his back, but didn't look back. It wouldn't do to encourage 
either of those lovely girls. He was only doomed to disappoint them.

5.00 P.M.
Gregg had taken most of the other candidates for puppets as a matter of course. 
It was easy enough. All Gregg needed was to touch them for a few seconds. A 
lingering handshake was enough, long enough for Puppetman to cross the bridge of 
the touch and crawl into the other person's mind, there to prowl in the caverns 
of hidden desires and emotions, bringing all the filth to life.
Once the link was established, Gregg no longer needed the physical contact. As 
long as the puppet was within a few hundred yards, Puppetman could make the leap 
mentally.
Gregg artfully used Puppetman during the campaign to make the other candidates 
stumble over a question or seem too forceful and blunt in stating their 
positions. He'd done that until Gimli had started interfering late in the 
primaries and Puppetman became too erratic and dangerous to use.
Even though he'd had the opportunity, he'd left Jesse Jackson alone. The 
reverend was charismatic and forceful, a powerful speaker. Gregg even admired 
the reverend; certainly no one else in the campaign was so unabashedly 
straightforward, so unafraid of making bold statements. Jackson was an idealist, 
not a pragmatist like the rest. That was one strike against him.
And Gregg knew from experience that prejudice was also real, that it was easy 
for the average person to mouth sympathy but not to act on it.
The joker prejudice was real. The black prejudice was real. With or without 
Puppetman, Jackson would not become president even if he managed to get the 
nomination.
Not this year. Not yet.
It was something Gregg dared not say in public, but he also knew that Jackson 
was well aware of the fact, no matter what the man might say. So Gregg had let 
Jackson go his own way. In a way, it had made for a more interesting primary 
campaign.
Now, with Puppetman wailing inside and far too unreliable to let loose again, 
Gregg was forced to admit that it might have been a mistake. It would have made 
things much easier now.
The Reverend Jackson sat across the room from Gregg in a voluminous leather 
armchair, his legs crossed over impeccably pressed black pants, his expensive 
silk tie knotted tightly around his throat. Around the Jackson campaign suite, 
his aides pretended not to watch. Two of Jackson's sons flanked the reverend on 
wooden chairs.
"Barnett is making a mockery of the joker's Rights plank," Gregg was saying. 
"He's diluting the impact by dragging in every special interest group he can 
think of. The trouble is that alone, I can't stop him."
Jackson pursed his lips, tapped them with a forefinger. "You come asking for my 
help now, Senator, but once the platform fight is over, it will be business as 
usual. As much as I disagree with the Reverend Barnett on basic issues, I 
understand the political reality. The Joker's Rights plank is your child, 
Senator. Without that plank's passage, you'll hardly appear to be a very 
effective leader for the country. After all, it's your own fundamental issue and 
you can't even make your own party listen."
Jackson looked almost pleased at the prospect.
I can take care of that. Just let me out ...Puppetman was angry, irritated. The 
power pushed at its restraints, wanting to lash out at the self-confident 
Jackson.
Leave me alone. Just for a few minutes. Let me get through this.
Gregg shoved the power back down, leaning back in his seat to cover the 
momentary inner conflict. Jackson was watching him, very carefully, very 
intently. The man had a predator's eyes, mesmerizing and dangerous. Gregg could 
feel sweat starting on his brow, and he knew Jackson noticed it as well.
" I'm not concerned with the nomination at the moment," Gregg said, ignoring 
Puppetman. "I'm concerned with helping the jokers, who have experienced the same 
prejudice as your own people."
Jackson nodded. An aide brought a tray over to the coffee table between them. 
"Iced tea? No? Very well." Jackson took a sip from his own glass and set it down 
again. Gregg could see the man thinking, gauging, wondering.
And with me you could truly know. You could control those feelings...
Be quiet.
You need me, Greggie. You do.
Intent on keeping Puppetman down, he missed the next few words. "... rumor is 
that you've been pushing your people very hard, Senator. You have even angered 
some of them. I've heard tales about instability, about a repeat of '76." Gregg 
flushed, started to retort heatedly, and then realized he was being goaded. This 
was exactly the reaction Jackson was trying to provoke. He forced himself to 
smile. "We're all used to a certain amount of mudslinging, Reverend. And yes, 
I've been pushing hard. I always push when I believe in something strongly."
"And the accusation makes you angry." Jackson smiled and waved a hand. "Oh, I 
know the feeling, Senator. In fact, I have the very same reaction when people 
question my work for civil rights. I'd expect it." He steepled his hands under 
his chin and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Just what is it you want, 
Senator?"
"A Joker's Rights plank. Nothing more."
"And how do you propose to buy my support?"
"I had hoped you would agree purely for the sake of the jokers. On humanitarian 
grounds."
"I feel deeply for the jokers, believe me, Senator. But I also know that a plank 
in a platform is just so many words. A platform commits no one to anything. I 
will fight for the rights of all oppressed people, with or without planks. I did 
not promise my people planks. I promised them I would do my best to win at this 
convention, and I am doing just that. I do not need a plank; you do."
Jackson reached for the glass again. He sipped, waiting and watching.
"All right," Gregg said at last. "I've talked with deVaughn and Logan on this. 
If you keep your delegates in line, we'll release our Alabama delegates after 
the first vote with the strong recommendation they go to you."
"Alabama isn't important to you. You took, what, 10% of the delegates there?"
"That 10% could be yours. You were second to Barnett in Alabama. More 
importantly, it might indicate that momentum in the South was moving away from 
Barnett, which would benefit you."
"And you, as well," Jackson pointed out. He shrugged. "I was also second in 
Mississippi."
Son of a bitch. "I'll have to confirm this, but I can probably release my 
delegates there as well."
Jackson paused. He looked over at his sons, then back to Gregg. "I need to think 
about this," he said.
You're letting it slip away, damn it! He's only going to ask for more. I could 
have made him agree without any concessions. You're a fool, Greggie.
"We don't have time," Gregg said sharply. He regretted the words instantly. 
Jackson's eyes narrowed, and Gregg hurried to smooth over the gaffe. "I'm sorry, 
Reverend. It's just ... it's just that to the jokers out there, the platform 
isn't words. The plank will be a symbol for them, a symbol that their voices 
have been heard. We all stand to gain, all of us who support them."
"Senator, you have a fine humanitarian record. But ..."
Let me have him ... ! "Reverend, sometimes my passion gets out of hand. Again, I 
apologize."
Jackson still frowned, but the anger was gone from his eyes.
You almost blew it.
Shut up. It was your interference. Let me handle it. You have to let me out. 
Soon.
Soon. I promise. Just be quiet.
"All right," the Reverend was saying. "I think I can arrange things with my 
people. Senator, you have my support."
Jackson held out his hand. Gregg could feel his fingers trembling as he took it. 
Mine! Mine! The power shuddered inside, screaming and clawing and throwing 
itself at the bars.
It took all Gregg's effort to hold Puppetman back as he shook hands with 
Jackson, and he broke the contact quickly. "Senator, are you all right?"
Gregg smiled wanly at Jackson. "I'm fine," he said. "Thank you, Reverend. Just a 
little bit hungry, that's all."

6:00 P.M.
"Where I was raised, a person does not seat themselves uninvited at another 
person's table."
Tachyon shuffled through the seven pink message slipsall from Hiram-and thrust 
them into a pocket. "Where you were raised, a person also does not fail to 
acknowledge and thank another person for a gift. I know, I was there when you 
first learned to lisp out tank-oo when I would bring you candy."
The fury flaming in Fleur's brown eyes was so intense that Tachyon flinched, and 
half raised a hand in defense.
"Leave me alone!" "I cannot."
"Why?" She wrung her hands, the fingers twisting desperately through one 
another. "Why are you torturing me? Wasn't killing my mother enough?"
"In all fairness, I think your father and I must share the blame. I broke her 
mind, but he allowed her to be tortured in that sanatorium. If he had left her 
with me, I might have found a way to repair the broken shards."
"If that was the choice, then I'm glad she died. Better that than being your 
whore."
"Your mother was never a whore. You dishonor her and yourself by that remark. 
You can't really feel that way."
"Well, I do, and why should I feel any differently? I never knew her. You saw to 
that."
"I didn't throw her out of the house."
"She could have gone to her parents."
"She loved me."
"I can't imagine why."
"Give me a chance, I could show you."
And as soon as the glib, flirtatious comment passed his lips Tachyon knew he had 
done a very stupid thing. As if to hold back the words, he pressed his fingers 
to his lips, but it was too late. Far, far too late.
Forty years too late?
Fleur rose from her chair like a wrathful goddess, and dealt him a ringing slap. 
Her nail caught on his lower lip, splitting it, and he tasted the sharp, coppery 
taste of blood. All conversation ceased in Pompano's. The silence made his skin 
crawl, and Tachyon chewed down the humiliation that filled his mouth like a foul 
taste. The tick of her high heels, as she stormed from the restaurant, beat into 
his ringing head.
Carefully, he held up two fingers before his face. Counted them. Dabbed at the 
cup with her discarded napkin. It smelled faintly of her perfume. His jaw 
tightened into a stubborn line.

8:00 P.M.
"Muscular dystrophy. Is it up or down on MS, Charles?"
"Christ!" Devaughn s voice, roaring through Jack's cellular phone, seemed more 
surly than ever. "I guess we can't be against Jerry's Kids, can we?"
The convention band staggered into the last bars of "Mame." Louis Armstrong 
could have played it better in his sleep. Jack was on the convention floor, 
standing on a scarred, gray folding chair, surrounded by his throng of 
Californians.
"Up or down, Charles?" Jack demanded.
"Up. Shit. Up." Jack could clearly hear deVaughn's fist banging on a desktop. 
"Shit-shit-shit. Shit-fuck-cunt. That bitch. That fucking WASP slut."
"I want to wring Fleur van Renssaeler's neck."
"You'll have to stand in line behind me, buddy."
"They're calling the vote." Emil Rodriguez tugged on Jack's sleeve. Jack hung up 
his portable phone and gave the thumbs-up sign to his horde of delegates. He 
tried to picture thousands of Americans in wheelchairs and leg braces cheering 
and reshuffling their political alignment, but his imagination failed.
Rodriguez, a short, bull-chested man, looked up at Jack with fury in his eyes.
"This sucks, man," he spat.
Jack got down from the chair and lit up a smoke. "You said it, ese."
Jim Wright gaveled for order. Jack looked at the dissolving huddles of delegates 
and considered the chaos that had descended on Atlanta today. The violent 
demonstrations, the platform fight, Sara Moregenstern's bizarre interruption of 
the press conference that morning.
Secret ace? he thought.
And then he thought, Which one?
For hours the convention had been tearing itself to bits over the joker's Rights 
plank. The platform committee had passed it with a strong dissent from Barnett's 
crowd: Barnett had moved the issue onto the floor while no one was looking, and 
then the sweaty brawl started in earnest. Barnett's people stood united against 
the plank, Hartmann for, and Jackson made a principled stand with Hartmann. The 
others had just tried to delay things till they could work out how much mileage 
they could get out of declaring one way or another. The thing might have breezed 
through if it hadn't been for the violence surrounding the joker camp that 
afternoon; the middle-of-the-road candidates hung on for as long as possible, 
wondering if there was going to be an anti-joker backlash, but eventually the 
delegates began sideling toward the Hartmann point of view.
It was then that the Barnett campaign made their master stroke. Since they 
realized they couldn't stop the plank from passing, they began their attempts to 
dilute it.
Why should the party be only in favor of joker's Rights, they asked. Shouldn't 
the party declare in favor of the rights of people with other handicaps?
Soon there was an up-or-down vote on whether victims of multiple sclerosis 
should be included in the civil rights plank. While Hartmann's managers, knowing 
perfectly well they were being sandbagged, cursed and threw furniture, the 
motion passed unanimously: no Democrat was going to be caught dead opposing 
people with an incurable illness.
Other diseases followed: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, guillain-barre syndrome, 
spina bifida, post-polio syndrome the vote on that one was close, mainly because 
no one had ever heard of it-and now Jerry's Kids. Barnett was succeeding in 
making the whole joker's Rights issue look ridiculous. Barnett's delegate head 
from Texas, a blue-haired woman in a white cowboy hat, red lacquered boots, and 
a matching red skirt and vest with a swaying white Buffalo Bob fringe, was on 
her feet making another motion. Jack told his phone to dial HQ and climbed on 
his chair again.
"Jesus Christ," said Rodriguez. "It's AIDS."
A panicked yelp went up from the convention. Barnett had made his master stroke. 
The eyes of every viewer panicked by retrovirus homophobic hysteria would be 
glued to the set, ready to see if the Democrats would endorse the pollution of 
their bodily fluids by lurking sodomites and junkies drooling contamination from 
every orifice. Furthermore, Barnett had convincingly linked AIDS with xenovirus 
Takis-A.
"Up or down, Charles?" Jack asked wearily.
"Fuck the queers!" Devaughn raged. "The hell with this!" Jack grinned and gave 
his people the thumbs-down. The retrovirus lost in a landslide. The convention 
had had enough of Barnett's tactics. The distractions had provided amusement for 
a while, and had succeeded in their principle duty of making Hartmann's 
convictions look silly, but now they were getting tiresome.
The Texas lady received instructions from on high and called for no more votes. 
Hartmann's people quietly moved that all other persons suffering from diseases 
were to be included in the civil rights plank. The motion passed unanimously.
The platform was moved and passed. Jim Wright gaveled the long day to a weary 
end. Hats and signs and flying ace gliders soared into the air from thankful 
delegates.
Jack told his delegates to be ready bright and early the next morning. By the 
end of Wednesday there were going to be at least two ballots, and they would say 
a lot about where the convention was headed.
He lit another Camel and watched the thousands of delegates funneling out the 
exits. The band serenaded their retreat with "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina."
For once Jack didn't react to the hated song. He was thinking about a secret 
ace.

9:00 P.M.
Billy Ray called Gregg from the Marriott's lobby. "Senator, you still interested 
in meeting with Barnett? Lady Black just told me he's on his way back to the 
hotel from a meeting."
It had been a horrible day. The afternoon and evening were worse than the 
morning. Amy, John, and finally deVaughn had tried vainly to arrange a 
conference with Barnett. They'd gotten as far as Fleur, who told them flatly 
that Barnett wasn't interested in speaking with Gregg. The struggle on the floor 
had reflected that uncooperative attitude.
Either Barnett or Fleur van Renssaeler had turned out to be a savvy political 
strategist. It had taken all of Gregg's influence to keep any kind of joker's 
Rights plank in the platform at all, and without the support of Jackson, it 
would have been impossible. The plank finally adopted was a toothless, 
emasculated version of the original, fettered with conditions and clouded 
language. The kindest thing that could be said of it was that it was a joker's 
Rights plank, the first. The networks might call it a "minor triumph" for 
Hartmann and the jokers; the angry crowds out in the streets knew it meant 
nothing.
With the platform set, the reasons for meeting Barnett were gone. All but one. 
The interior voice was emphatic. Do it.
" Senator? If we just happen to be in the hall or something when he-"
Worst of all, he'd had to deal with Puppetman's increasing desperation since the 
incident outside. He'd tried, but had never managed to submerge the power again. 
Puppetman was there, alongside him.
People were noticing. Jackson certainly had. Ellen was staring at him when she 
thought he wasn't looking; Amy, Braun, deVaughn all were handling him with 
obvious kid gloves. If he wanted this nomination, he had to do something about 
Puppetman. He couldn't afford to have his attention divided so strongly.
"Thanks, Billy. It sounds good. We have a few minutes? I'd like to freshen up."
"Sure. I'll be up to get you."
Gregg hung up and went into the bathroom. He stared at the mirror. "You're out 
of control," he whispered. Gimli's cold amusement answered him.
The dav's efforts had cost him-the image that gazed back at him looked 
exhausted. Barnett's for me, Puppetman insisted again, and Gregg almost expected 
to see his lips move with the words. Once we take him as a puppet, we can 
maneuver him the way we did Gephardt and Babbit. Just a nudge here and there . .
We were going to try that before, at one of the debates, Gregg reminded him. He 
always stayed away from us, never let us shake his hand or touch him at all. 
This is crazy.
Puppetman scoffed. This time he will. You have to trust me. You can't win 
without my help.
But Gimli--
We must try. If you stop fighting me, we can do it. All right. All right.
Billy Ray insisted on talking for the few minutes it took to go down to 
Barnett's floor. Gregg let the monologue run unabated; he heard nothing of it. 
When the elevator doors opened, Ray stepped out, flashing his ID, to speak with 
the guards posted there. Gregg went to the edge of the balcony and stared down 
at the glittering lobby. A glider had landed on the carpet beside him: Mistral. 
He picked the toy up and gave it a gentle toss. It looped and then settled into 
a steady descent. Someone a few floors down saw it and gave a boozy cheer.
Five minutes later, an elevator chimed. Gregg turned to see Lady Black step out, 
followed by Fleur and Leo Barnett. Gregg put on a smile and strode forward. 
"Reverend Barnett, you're very well protected by your staff."
Lady Black had stepped aside, but Fleur remained between Gregg and Barnett, 
scowling and giving Gregg no choice but to stop or run into her. He moved to one 
side and held out his hand to Barnett.
Puppetman hunched, ready to leap.
Barnett was bluffly handsome, a fair-haired vision of the Southern preacher. A 
faint smile lurked in his full lips, and the soft twang of his origins inhabited 
his resonant voice. "Senator Hartmann, I'm sorry. Sometimes my staff seems to 
think I need their protection as well as the Lord's. You understand." He looked 
at the proffered hand, and that faint smile crossed his mouth again. "And I'd 
gladly shake your hand, Senator, but unfortunately mine's rather sore at the 
moment. A little mishap downstairs in the lobby."
Puppetman cursed. Gregg pulled his hand back.
"Tell him that it was a joker, Reverend," Fleur snapped coldly. "Tell him how 
you shook the sinner's hand and how he tried to crush it. I still think you 
should go to the hospital. A fracture-"
"It's only a bruise, sister. Please ..." Barnett smiled at Gregg as if sharing 
some private joke. "I'm sure the Senator has had similar experiences. 
Handshaking's the bane of politicians."
"That it is," Gregg said. He was so damned tired of smiling. He nodded to the 
stonefaced Fleur. "And I'm especially sorry it was a joker."
"A joker with one of your campaign buttons," Fleur sniffed.
"Which my people, like yours, give out by the thousands," Gregg countered, a 
little too sharply. He turned to Barnett. "There are enough misunderstandings 
already. I wanted to give you and your staff my congratulations on a hard fight 
over the platform, and to say that I'm glad we could finally come to a 
compromise. "
That made Barnett's lips twitch, and Gregg knew he'd touched a nerve. "I did not 
agree to the modified plank," Barnett said. "There were, well, weak-hearted 
souls among my delegates who saw fit to accept it over my protest. It was a 
mistake, and-I must confess my own vanity-I'm sick over it. But the Lord also 
makes use of defeats, Senator. He's shown me that I was wrong trying to play 
these political games. I'm finding that this convention is hardly the place for 
someone like me."
For a moment, Gregg felt an uplift of optimism. If Barnett were to withdraw his 
nomination, even if he instructed his delegates to vote for Dukakis or Jackson 
... But Barnett was smiling again, taking out the well-worn Bible stuffed in his 
suit jacket's pocket and patting its gilded covers. "I am a man of God, Senator. 
For the remainder of this convention, I intend to do what I know best: I will 
pray. I will lock the doors of this world and open the doors of my soul."
Gregg's face must have shown his confusion. "Today was hardly a defeat for you, 
Reverend, and hardly a victory for me. I'd like to work with you to make a new 
path, one both we and our party can follow. Isolating yourself isn't the 
answer."
Barnett nodded seriously, as if weighing Gregg's argument in his mind. "It might 
be that you're right, Senator. If so, then I have to trust that God will make it 
known to me. Still, I fully expect to spend the rest of this convention in 
prayer and not in playing the convention power games. Fleur's wellequipped to 
handle all that for the time being. I'm a stubborn fool sometimes. I don't 
really believe in compromise, I've no delusion that there is more than one right 
path. The God L know and the God I've seen in the Bible doesn't compromise. God 
never came to `understandings,' God never made 'concessions to political 
realities.'" Barnett glanced at Gregg, concern lining his high forehead. "I 
don't mean to offend you, Senator, but I have to say what I believe."
"Yet I believe in the very same God, Reverend. We're only men, not God Himself. 
We do the best we can; we're not enemies. It's human pride that keeps us apart. 
The least we can do as leaders is shake hands and try to resolve our 
differences." Gregg lathed his words with earnest conviction. "For the good of 
all. That would seem to be a truly Christian act." Gregg gave a bluff, 
self-deprecating chuckle and put out his hand once more. "I promise not to 
squeeze."
Puppetman quivered in anticipation. For a moment, he was certain that it had 
worked. Barnett hesitated, rocking on his toes. Then the preacher thoughtfully 
clasped his hands together around his Bible.
"The act I'd like to see us share, Senator, is prayer. Let me make an invitation 
to you. Join me in my vigil. Let's leave the politics to the delegates and kneel 
together for the next several days."
"Reverend ..." Gregg began. He shook his head. Why? Why does he avoid us every 
time?
Barnett nodded, almost sadly. "I thought not," he said. "We walk very different 
paths, Senator." He began walking toward his room, clutching the Bible in his 
right hand.
Gregg let his hand drop to his side. "You don't shake hands with enemies, 
Reverend?" Gregg's voice was harsh, tinged with Puppetman's vitriol. Fleur, 
following behind Barnett, flushed angrily. Barnett simply favored Gregg with 
another of his sorrowful, secretive smiles.
"People expect Biblical quotes from a man of God, Senator," he said. "It's not 
surprising, since the Bible often has just the right word for the occasion. One 
comes to mind now, from I Timothy: `The Spirit distinctly says that in later 
times some will turn away from the faith and will heed deceitful spirits and 
things taught by demons through plausible liarsmen with seared consciences.' Now 
that's a bit of hyperbole, Senator, but I think that-unbeknownst, perhaps-a 
demon taints your words. We're not enemies, Senator. At least I don't think so. 
And even if we were, I'd still pray that you'd come into the light and cleanse 
yourself. There's always hope for redemption. Always."
Barnett gave Gregg an unblinking, long stare. There was a distinct click as he 
turned the deadbolt behind him.
The brandy kept hitting the cut on his lip, and each time it drew a yelp. And a 
smirk from the bartender. Tachyon considered telling her to fuck off, then he 
realized what a picture he must present. The mark of Sara's nails from last 
night's fiasco lay like red furrows dug in the white skin of his cheek. His 
lower lip was split and slightly swollen from Fleur's nail. What a singularly 
unsuccessful lothario he was. No wonder the young woman behind the bar smirked. 
Women. They always stuck together.
"Hi. Mind if I join you?"
Josh Davidson slid onto the stool next to him. Tach turned to greet him with 
genuine pleasure. "No, not at all."
"When a man sits huddled on a stool at a bar, it generally means he wants to be 
alone, but I thought I'd take a chance."
"I'm glad you did. Buy you a drink?"
"Sure."
An awkward silence fell between the two men, punctuated only by Davidson's 
order. Suddenly they shifted to face one another, and both said in chorus,
"I've admired--"
"I've always admired you-"
They laughed, and Tachyon said, "Well, isn't that convenient? We obviously have 
good taste." Tach paused and sipped brandy. "Why are you down here?"
Davidson shrugged. "Curiosity."
"About what?"
"The political process. Can a man make a difference?"
"Oh, yes, I'm convinced of it."
"But you come from a culture that puts a premium on individual effort," said 
Davidson, rolling his glass between his palms.
"I take it you don't agree?"
"I don't know. It seems a questionable proposition to allow one man's vision, 
opinion, to shape policy."
"But in this political system it never happens. Even in my aristocratic culture 
the absolute despot is a fantasy. There are always competing interests."
"Yes, so how do you choose between them?" Frowning, Tachyon said, "You make the 
decision."
"That sounds so easy. But what right do you have to substitute your judgment for 
... for .."
"The will of the people?" suggested the Takisian. "Yes."
Tachyon steepled his fingers before his mouth, threw back his head and regarded 
the wine glasses hanging like crystal stalactites from their rack. "A 
representative owes the People not only his industry, but his judgment, and he 
betrays them if he sacrifices it to their opinion .. Edmund Burke." Davidson's 
laughter was sharp and clear. Tachyon stiffened. "Doctor, you astound me."
Tachyon didn't reply. He knew he astounded people. He had astounded people since 
the moment of his arrival on this planet. August 23, 1946. Ideal, where had the 
time gone?
Forty-two years. He had lived almost as long on this world as on his own. Home.
"Hello? Where are you?" Dark, thoughtful eyes, soft with concern.
"On a world that doesn't exist for me anymore." Homesickness lay like a jagged 
lump in the back of Tach's throat.
"So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?"
The men's eyes locked. "Doesn't that describe Takis?" asked Davidson softly.
"And Earth. Treachery may be the one constant in an inconstant universe." Tach 
rose abruptly. "Pray excuse me. You were right, I do need to be alone."

11:00 P.M.
The day had been a total washout. Spector sprawled on the bed, two pillows 
propping him up. He had the TV remote control in one hand and a bottle of 
whiskey in the other. It was his bedtime ritual, and helped him feel less out of 
place.
He wasn't going to get to Hartmann in this building, not unless he was lucky 
beyond belief. And he'd used up his luck in getting this far. He didn't have 
access to the areas of the hotel that Hartmann would be in, except during press 
conferences. And he'd noticed that politicians rarely looked you in the eye 
unless you asked them a question. He wasn't dumb enough to draw that kind of 
attention to himself.
He sipped at his drink and played channel roulette. Atlanta had gotten pounded 
again, this time by the Cardinals. The news was full of political bullshit, of 
course. Was Hartmann porking this stupid reporter bitch? Did Leo Barnett really 
think God spoke to him? Spector wished he'd gotten contracts to kill them all. 
Politicians were mostly people who'd had too little morals and ethics to stay 
lawyers.
He'd eventually settled on an old movie. It was a period piece, set in France 
during the revolution. There was a guy in it who talked like Odie Cologne from 
the King Leonardo cartoons. Spector thought the actor had a double role, but 
hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure. None of the colors looked 
like anything that occurred in nature. Just pastels that blurred and bled into 
each other anytime someone moved. Ted Turner's movies looked about as good as 
his baseball team.
It had been weird running into Tony, even weirder finding out that he was a 
honcho for Hartmann. Tony was a good guy and Spector liked him, but he'd always 
been something of a bleeding heart.
The actor was in deep shit now, headed for the guillotine. He didn't seem 
particularly upset about it. Spector would have gone kicking and screaming. He 
knew what it was like to die.
He could use Tony to get at Hartmann, if there was no other way. Spector had 
always prided himself on the fact that he never fucked over his friends. He'd 
never had many, so it wasn't that hard to do. But the job came first.
The actor had just sent a little blonde number up to the big blade with a kiss 
and now it was his turn. "It's a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever 
done before. It's a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known." The 
actor stood before the guillotine, noble, unafraid. Naturally, the camera pans 
up so nobody can see his head flop into the basket.
"What a fucking sap," Spector said, as he zapped the TV off. He downed another 
slug of whiskey and turned off the lights.

CHAPTER THREE
Wednesday July 20, 1988
7:00 A.M.
The heavy thrum of the engines ran through every nerve. Tachyon stared gloomily 
out the plane's window, until returned to the present by a dig in the ribs from 
his seat companion. The stewardess indicated the covered tray with her eyes, and 
raised her eyebrows.
"Thank you, no. But I would like a drink. A screwdriver. Put that orange juice 
to good use." He smiled at her. She didn't respond. In fact she gave him a look 
that clearly said you lush.
He returned to his moody contemplation of the boiling thunderheads two thousand 
feet below. The stewardess returned with his drink, and Tach dug into his pocket 
for money. He came up with an inch-thick pile of pink message slips. Tachyon, 
call me, goddamn it! Hiram. He got the woman paid, and stared again at Hiram's 
insulting and uncommunicative message.
What the fuck did Worchester want, and what the fuck had Davidson meant? Did he 
mean to imply that Tachyon was a shepherd, and the jokers "silly sheep?" Or was 
the reference to a king meant for him? Or had it held a more personal meaning? 
Davidson had looked odd. Or was it just an irritating affectation on the part of 
a professional actor who couldn't carry on a conversation without a 
scriptwriter?
"Silly sheep. Goddamn him." Tach pulled out a handkerchief, and gave his nose a 
quick blow.
I'm going home to bury one of my lost sheep. Oh, Chrysalis.
He propped his head on his hand.

9:00 A.M.
He'd had to wait almost forty-five minutes to get seated. The atrium coffee shop 
was a blur of activity. Waitpersons bounced around from table to table like 
pinballs. Spector sat by himself in a small booth, ignoring the babble of 
everyone around him. He looked slowly around the room. There were lots of 
red-rimmed eyes and pained expressions. Spector figured most of them had gotten 
fucked-up or fucked or both last night. He hadn't managed much sleep himself 
until the early morning hours.
A waitress stopped at his table and made a face that might have been a smile the 
first thousand or so times she'd done it. She pulled out her pad and pencil and 
raised her eyebrows expectantly. "What can I get for you this morning, sir?" The 
words came out in swift, staccato fashion. So much for Southern hospitality.
"Just coffee for now." Spector smiled slowly. He wanted food, too, but figured 
he was going to get his money's worth out of this bitch. The waitress gave him a 
dirty look and shot away from the table.
Spector leaned back in his chair and forced his surroundings to go out of focus. 
He had to come up with a plan to get at Hartmann. The pain was chewing at him 
big-time this morning, making it hard to think. '.Maybe he could get some inside 
dope from Tony. Find out where and when the senator would be most exposed. It 
would have to be crowded enough that nobody would realize exactly what had 
happened. At least, not for a while.
The waitress swept back over and set his coffee down hard, slopping it over into 
the saucer. "Sorry," she said, clearly not meaning it. "Will there be anything 
else?"
Spector waited a long moment before replying. "I'll need just a few more 
minutes."
The waitress rolled her eyes and walked away.
Spector picked up his cup and took a large swallow. The coffee burned his mouth 
and throat going down. No problem; it would heal before he decided what to 
order. He'd never have blisters on his tongue again.
Spector glanced over at the line of people waiting to be seated. A trim, 
bearded, older man walked past the crowd and looked slowly around the room. The 
man saw Spector and began walking purposefully over to his table. Spector tensed 
his legs, ready to bolt up if necessary. The man looked familiar, somehow. He 
stopped at the other side of the table and smiled.
"Pardon me, it's rather crowded in here this morning. Do you mind if I join you? 
My name is Josh Davidson." Spector was about to tell him to fuck off when he 
remembered that Davidson was one of his favorite actors. All the tension went 
out of him when Davidson smiled again.
" No, please, sit down, Mr. Davidson." Spector handed the actor his menu and 
looked for the waitress. He was damned if Josh Davidson was going to have to 
wait for service if he could do anything about it.
" Thank you so much," Davidson said, carefully seating himself. He pulled a 
folded newspaper out from under his arm and opened it up.
Spector spotted the waitress and was about to signal her when a large man 
emerged from the crowd. Hiram Worchester smoothed the creases in his lapels and 
looked from table to table.
"Mind if I read a section? " Spector reached for the front page, which Davidson 
had set aside.
"Be my guest."
Spector grabbed the paper and opened it quickly. He peeped up over the top. 
Fatman was still looking about. If he's looking for Davidson, I'm sunk, he 
thought. As satisfying as it might be to croak the blimpy bastard, he couldn't 
jeopardize the job. A waiter walked over to Worchester and nodded deferentially.
"I have to leave, Mr. Davidson," Spector said. "Not really feeling too well. 
Mind if I keep your front page?"
"Not at all. It's the least I can do."
Spector stood and walked slowly toward the door, keeping the newspaper raised in 
front of him. It looked stupid, but was better than having Worchester recognize 
him.
The waitress walked past him as he left. "Good riddance," she said, just loud 
enough for him to hear. Spector was too preoccupied to even care.

11:00 A.M.
Tachyon leaned against the side of the pew, and licked sweat from his upper lip. 
He was afraid he was going to faint from the stifling heat, and the four 
enormous fans in the back of Our Lady of Perpetual Misery did little to stir the 
heavy, moist air. He considered removing his velvet coat, but that would reveal 
the sweat-darkened circles beneath his armpits, and what an offensive state in 
which to say farewell to Chrysalis. He was supposed to verbalize that farewell. 
Sum up in brilliant, poignant words what Chrysalis had meant to Jokertown. And 
he had no idea what he was going to say. He hadn't really known Chrysalis, and 
on some level he hadn't really liked her. But one could scarcely say that in a 
eulogy.
Staring at her flower-draped casket, Tach wondered if Chrysalis's ghost was 
hovering nearby, listening to the hurried mumbling as the Living Rosary Society 
told their beads and offered prayers for the repose of her soul.
The procession began, led by a joker altar boy with a bronze helix hung with the 
joker Jesus. He was followed by two others swinging censors that sent clouds of 
incense into the already highly redolent air. Tach coughed, and covered his 
mouth with his handkerchief.
"I hate all this Catholic mumbo jumbo. She was raised a Baptist and she should 
a'died a Baptist."
Tach turned his head slowly and regarded the man seated next to him in the pew. 
He was a big man with a weathered face that was florid beneath his tan. The 
black suit coat strained across his belly, and tendrils of sweat left shiny 
lines on his jowls. There didn't seem to be anything to say so Tach didn't. "I'm 
Joe Jory, Debra Jo's daddy."
"How do you do," Tach mumbled, as Father Squid, resplendent in his finest 
surplice, walked past with ponderous dignity.
The priest reached the altar, set his missal in place, then turned to the crowd 
and raised his arms wide saying in his sad, soft voice,
"Let us pray."
Throughout the mass, Jory and Tachyon struggled along, always a beat behind the 
standing, kneeling, sitting worshipers. Last year it had been the same situation 
at Des's funeraland in that moment Tachyon knew what he was going to say in the 
eulogy. He stopped trying to make sense of the alien ceremony, and simply sat 
with head bowed, tears slipping slowly from beneath closed lids as he composed 
his thoughts.
The little joker altar boy nudged his shoulder, and Tach returned from his 
reverie. Ahamper containing tiny loaves of bread. The Takisian broke off a bite, 
and passed on the hamper. The bread seemed to swell in his dry mouth, and he 
choked trying to get it down. With a quick surreptitious glance to either side 
he unlimbered his flask, and gulped down a sip of brandy.
Father Squid beckoned, and Tach took his place at the lectern. Pulling out his 
handkerchief he wiped his face, drew a deep breath and began.
"Exactly one year ago on the twentieth day of July, 1987, we gathered in this 
church to bury Xavier Desmond. I spoke his eulogy, as I shall speak Chrysalis's. 
And I am honored to do so, but the melancholy truth is that I am weary of 
burying my friends. Jokertown is a poorer place because of their passing, and my 
life-and yours-is diminished by their loss." Tach paused and stared down at his 
hands where they gripped the lectern. He forced himself to relax.
"A eulogy is a speech in praise of a person, but I am finding this one to be 
very difficult. I called myself Chrysalis's friend. I saw her frequently. I even 
traveled around the world with her. But I realize now that I didn't really know 
her. I knew she called herself Chrysalis and that she lived in Jokertown, but I 
didn't know her natal name or where she'd been born. I knew she played at being 
British, but I never knew why. I knew she liked to drink amaretto, but I never 
knew what made her laugh. I knew she liked secrets, liked to be in control, 
liked to appear cool and untouched, but I never knew what made her that way."
"I thought about all of this on the plane from Atlanta and decided that if I 
couldn't speak in praise of her, at least I could speak in praise of her deeds. 
A year ago, when war raged in our streets and our children were in danger, 
Chrysalis offered her place-her palace-as a refuge and fortress. It was 
dangerous for her, but danger never disturbed Chrysalis."
"She was a joker who refused to act like a joker. The crystal lady never wore a 
mask. You took her as you found her, or you could just be damned. In this way, 
perhaps, she taught some nats tolerance and some jokers courage." Tears were 
streaming down his face. In order to speak past the lump in his throat he pushed 
his voice higher and louder.
"Because we worship our ancestors, Takisian funerals are even more important 
than births. We believe our dead stay close by to guide their foolish 
descendants, a belief that can be terrifying or comforting, depending on the 
personality of the ancestor. Chrysalis's presence, I think, will be more 
terrifying than comforting because she will require much of us."
"Someone murdered her. This should not go unpunished. "Hate rises like a 
smothering tide in this country. We must resist it.
"Our neighbors are poor and hungry, frightened and destitute. We must feed and 
shelter and comfort and aid them."
"She will expect all of this from us."
Tachyon paused and scanned the congregation. His attention was drawn to the bank 
of votive candles burning near the lectern. Crossing to it, he lifted one of the 
tiny candles and returned to the lectern. The flame flickered hypnotically 
before his eyes.
"In one year Jokertown has lost two of its most important leaders. We are 
frightened and saddened and confused by the loss. But I say they are still here, 
still with us. Let us be worthy of them. Win honor in their memories. Never 
forget."
Bending, Tach pulled his knife from its boot sheath. He placed the candle on the 
lectern and positioned his forefinger directly over the flame. With a quick 
slash, he cut his finger and extinguished the flame with a drop of his blood.
"Farewell, Chrysalis."
Running into Fatman had rattled him a bit, but a couple swallows of whiskey had 
helped calm Spector down. He sat. hunched over the edge of the bed, staring at 
the headline.
"HARTMANN TO SPEAK IN PARK TODAY." The senator was going to make a public plea 
to the jokers to demonstrate in a non-violent manner. It was risky, what with 
all the lunatics wandering around. No one was crazier than a politician with his 
back to the wall, though. And Hartmann was really up against it. Spector turned 
on the TV and tuned it to a channel that showed the times and places of the 
day's events. After a few moments waiting, there it was. A one o'clock speech 
and nothing about any cancellation.
Spector chewed his lip and paged through the paper absentmindedly. He needed an 
angle. He'd need a way to blend into the crowd and still stand out enough to 
manage to catch Hartmann's eye.
A small, corner ad caught his attention. It was Keaton's Kostumes. MASKS, 
MAKEUP, COSTUMES, PARTY SUPPLIES, and MORE it promised. A man in a costume held 
up the list and smiled in a stupid, exaggerated way. He looked like Marcel 
Marceau. Spector tossed the paper, wiped the ink stains off on his gray pants, 
and started laughing.
Jack passed through the enormous brass revolving door into the Marriott lobby, 
saw the swarms of press and Hartmann delegates, and tried not to think of pigs 
at a trough. The campaign was doing its best to feed its people and get everyone 
back onto the floor in the short time allowed by the luncheon recess, and the 
Marriott had obliged with a vast buffet that was serving up pasta salad and rare 
roast beef by the ton. Jack could see Hiram Worchester perched on a sagging sofa 
near the lounge piano, a plate piled high with food balanced on either knee. The 
glass elevators were jammed full of press and delegates taking hookers up to 
their rooms for a little noon relief. The piano man was playing "Piano Man" once 
again. Jack had an oppressive feeling he knew precisely what song was going to 
come next.
Fortunately Jack didn't have to cluster around the buffet tables and gobble his 
lunch with the others while the pianist offered the inevitable salute to Eva 
Peron-Jack had a permanent reserved table at the Bello Mondo, secured by 
offering the maitre d' a crisp new hundred-dollar bill every day.
A good meal and a few double whiskeys would come in about right. It had been a 
lousy morning anyway. CBS commentators had jabbered right through most of Jimmy 
Carter's seconding speech for Hartmann, and the other networks had cut away for 
commercials. Chairman Jim Wright, who Jack figured wanted Hartmann to win, had 
cued the band to play "Stars and Stripes Forever" at the end of the speech, 
which got the audience up for a massive floor demonstration that those watching 
TV had entirely missed. Jack could have sworn he heard deVaughn's screams all 
the way from the Marriott.
Jack was beginning to believe, in a purely superstitious way, in the existence 
of a secret ace who was out to get Hartmann. Or maybe just Gremlins from the 
Kremlin.
"Jack! Mr. Braun!" An avuncular Father Christmas figure rolled toward him, a 
straw porkpie hat shadowing his long white hair and straggly beard. Louis 
Manxman, a reporter for the LA Times, who had been aboard Hartmann's campaign 
plane from the start. There was a purposeful look in the newsman's eye.
"Hi, Louis." Jack tucked his briefcase under one arm, jammed his hands into the 
pockets of his Banana Republic photojournalist's jacket, and tried to skate 
past. Manxman moved purposefully to block him and grinned up through 
metal-rimmed bifocals.
"I want the story on that test vote Monday night."
"Ancient history, Louis."
"The papers have been praising Danny Logan's masterful strategy, the way he put 
it together at the last minute. Even deVaughn didn't know what was happening-you 
shoulda seen his face when he realized. But I know Logan from way back, and it 
doesn't seem like his kinda move at all. I've talked to every delegate head I 
could find, and they all say their orders came from you, not Logan."
"Logan knew what I was doing." Jack tried to move left. Manxman moved to block.
"A source told me the old mick was passed out Monday night."
"He was celebrating." Moving right.
"Celebrating from breakfast on, from what I hear." Blocking.
Jack glared at him. "I'm a busy man, Louis. What the hell do you want, anyway?"
"Was it you or wasn't it?"
"I will not confirm or deny. Okay?"
"Why deny it? You're a Hollywood boy-you should relish the publicity. Don't be 
such a weenie."
Jack stopped for a moment and wondered if "weenie" was going to be the operative 
word for this convention.
The inevitable happened, and the man in the white tuxedo pounded out the opening 
bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Jack felt his temper fraying.
"I'm late for lunch, Louis. I won't confirm or deny. That's for the record; 
that's my statement. Got that?"
The Santa Claus look was gone. "Forty years too late to take the Fifth, Jack."
Anger snarled in Jack. He fixed the reporter in a cold stare and stepped forward 
as if to walk right through him.
They were nearing the white piano on its pedestal. The man in the white tuxedo 
was still ringing through his paean to South American fascism. Anger began to 
roil in Jack in the wake of fear and humiliation. He said goodbye to Amy, then 
stepped up to the piano. The man in the white tuxedo gave him an automatic 
smile.
There was a big fishbowl on the piano with a green drift of tip money in the 
bottom. Jack reached for the rim of the glass, exerted just slightly, and 
cracked off a hand-sized piece. His golden force field fluttered slightly. The 
piano man stared. Jack pulverized the glass in his hand, then reached forward, 
opened the front pocket of the man's jacket, and poured the glass inside.
"Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" died away.
"Play that song again," Jack said, "and I'll kill you." Walking away, Jack felt 
he ought to be ashamed of this brand of cheap satisfaction.
Somehow he wasn't.
12:00 NooN
Troll was Chrysalis's only pallbearer. The massive security chief from the 
Jokertown clinic cradled the coffin in his arms as if it were a sleeping child, 
and led the procession into the churchyard. More prayers were said, and Father 
Squid blessed the grave with incense and holy water. Tachyon scooped up a 
handful of dirt, and dribbled it slowly onto the coin. It gave back a hollow, 
scrabbling sound like claws on glass, and Tachyon shuddered.
The sun looked bloated and somehow diseased as it floated in the pall of a 
smoggy New York summer day. Tach longed for the end. The dead had been buried. 
Now Atlanta was beckoning. But there was still the receiving line to be endured, 
and thirty minutes of human handshakes. Tach decided to spare himself some of 
the grossities. He pulled out a pair of red kid gloves, and worked them over his 
slim, white hands.
"Hello, Father," said a familiar voice to his left. "Good to see you again, 
Daniel."
Tachyon couldn't restrain himself. He flung himself into Brennan's arms, hugging 
the human with a fierce grip, and a show of naked emotion that he knew the man 
was only tolerating. With a sharply indrawn breath, Tach held Brennan at arm's 
length and eyed him critically.
"We must talk. Come."
They walked deeper into the graveyard until they were partly shielded by several 
intricate tombstones. Tachyon peered around a weeping angel at the woman who 
stared curiously after them.
"The beautiful blonde must be Jennifer."
"Yes," said Brennan.
"I'd say you're a lucky man, but that would seem less than apt when you're being 
framed for murder. Is that what brought you back?"
"Partly. Mostly I'm here to find who killed her."
"And bow are you progressing?"
"Not too well."
"Any theories?"
"I thought Kien might have done it."
Tachyon shook his head. "That makes no sense. We had a deal that took you out of 
the city and ended the war. Why would he risk restarting the whole killing 
cycle?"
"Who knows? I'm just going to keep poking until something jumps."
Dryly Tach said, "Just make sure it doesn't jump on you. I wish I could aid you, 
but I must return to Atlanta. You will keep in touch?"
"No. Once I finish this, Jennifer and I are leaving New York, and this time it 
will be for good."
"If you won't keep in touch, at least be careful."
"That I can agree to."

1:00 P.M.
Piedmont Park was packed. Spector shouldered his way through the crowd toward 
the podium. He felt like an idiot in the tight black-and-white outfit. His skin 
was suffocating under the greasepaint. He'd barely made it to the park on time. 
The costume shop had been wall-to-wall bodies, mostly jokers. Luckily, the 
gathering in the park had emptied the streets. He'd left his clothes and other 
belongings in a locker. The key was tucked under the wrist of his leotard.
He was still a good hundred yards from the podium. They'd done a mike test, but 
so far, no Hartmann. A shadow moved slowly over the crowd. Spector looked up, 
shading his eyes from the glare, and saw the Turtle gliding noiselessly over 
them toward the stage, which was being prepared for the senator's speech. There 
was applause and a small cheer. The crowd was mostly jokers, although there were 
a few groups of nats clustered at the edges.
"Look, Mommy, a funny man." A young joker girl pointed at Spector. She was 
sitting in a beat-up stroller, holding a flower. Her arms and legs were 
rail-thin and knobbed up and down. They looked like they'd been broken twenty 
times each.
Spector gave a weak smile, hoping the greasepaint around his lips made it seem 
bigger than it was.
The girl's mother smiled back. Patterns of blotchy red pigment crept across her 
skin. As Spector watched, one of the circles closed into a small dot and erupted 
blood. The woman wiped it away in a quick, embarrassed motion. She took the 
flower from her daughter's hand and held it out to Spector. Spector reached out 
and took it, being careful not to touch her flesh. Being a nat in a crowd of 
jokers, even dressed as a mime, gave him the creeps. He turned away.
"Do something funny," the little girl said. "Mommy, make him do something 
funny."
There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. Spector turned slowly and tried 
to think. Funny was something he'd never been accused of being. He tried 
balancing the flower on the tip of a finger. Amazingly, he was able to. There 
was dead silence. Sweat dripped over his painted brows and into his eyes. He was 
breathing hard. It was still very quiet.
A gloved hand flashed before Spector's face, snatching the flower. It placed the 
stem between painted lips and struck an affected pose. Laughter from the crowd. 
The other mime bowed low and raised up slowly.
Spector took a step back. The other mime quickly grabbed him by the elbow and 
shook his head. More giggles from the crowd. This was the last thing Spector 
needed. Not only was he the center of attention, but he was still a long way 
from where he needed to be. Hartmann might start up any second and Spector 
wouldn't be able to get through in time.
The other mime looked down, made a face, and pointed at Spector's feet. Spector 
glanced down instinctively and saw nothing there, just as the mime's hand came 
up under his chin and popped his head back. This got the biggest laugh of all. 
The mime clutched at his sides and laughed noiselessly. Spector rubbed his 
mouth; he'd bitten his tongue. He gritted his teeth under the painted-on smile.
The other mime placed a finger on the top of Spector's head and danced around 
him like a maypole. He stopped in front of Spector, tugged at his cheeks.
Spector had put up with enough. It was time to get this fucker out of his hair. 
He stepped in close and made eye contact. He locked in and set the pain free, 
grabbing the mime's shoulders as he began to fall over. Spector lowered him 
slowly, pulling the mime's hands together over his chest. The shithead's eyes 
were glazed over with death and surprise by the time he came to rest on the 
trampled grass. Spector stuck the flower in the corpse's hands and applauded 
melodramatically. The crowd laughed and cheered. Some patted him on the back; 
others looked at the mime, waiting for him to get up.
"My friends." The amplified voice came from the podium. The crowd turned. 
Spector angled his shoulders and began pushing through. "Today, we will have the 
privilege to hear from the only man who can lead us through these next difficult 
years. A man who preaches tolerance, not hatred. A man who unites, instead of 
being divisive. A man who will lead his people, not herd them. I give you the 
next president of the United States of America, Senator Gregg Hartmann."
The applause was deafening. There were weird screams and whistles, joker noises. 
Spector caught an elbow in the ear from a freak with arms that hung to his 
knees. He shook it off and kept moving in.
"Thank you." Hartmann paused while the applause and cheers played out. "Thank 
all of you very much."
Spector could see him now, but there was no way to lock eyes at this distance, 
even if Hartmann was looking right at him. The crowd was pressing in toward the 
podium. Spector rode the flood of human mistakes; used his narrow shoulders to 
cut through. Another minute or two and he'd be in position. "It has been said 
that I am a pro-joker candidate." Hartmann raised his hands to still the 
applause before it could start. "That is not strictly true. I have always placed 
one idea above all others. That this country should exist as our founding 
fathers planned it. Equal rights for all, guaranteed, under the law of the land. 
No individual greater than the next. No one, however powerful, exempt from the 
law." Hartmann paused. The crowd applauded again.
Spector was about a hundred feet away in the center of the crowd. Hartmann was 
wearing a beige suit. A slight breeze stirred at his styled hair. Secret Service 
agents flanked the podium, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The senator's 
gaze swept the crowd but missed Spector. It would take total concentration to 
lock on for the instant they had eye contact. If that even happened.
"I need your help to win our party's nomination and become your next president." 
Hartmann extended his hands to the crowd. "Your presence here in Atlanta can 
help me only if you demonstrate in an orderly manner. Any acts of violence, 
whether provoked or not, will certainly be used against us. You have the 
opportunity to make a simple, but eloquent statement. A statement made by Gandhi 
and Martin Luther King Jr. That violence is an abhorrent act. That it will not 
be tolerated, by you, under any circumstance."
Hartmann's eyes were drifting across the crowd again, headed straight for him. 
Spector held his breath and concentrated, the pain howling in his head. Just a 
little more. Spector stood on his toes. Their eyes locked ...
... there was a sound. A Secret Service man knocked Hartmann down. Gunfire. 
There were screams and people tried to move, but were packed too closely 
together. Spector looked at a hilltop. There were maybe a hundred men in 
Confederate uniforms. Puffs of smoke came from their guns, then the echo of the 
shots across the park.
Hartmann was gone. There wouldn't be another chance. Not here, anyway. Spector 
jumped in behind a joker who was as broad as three normal men. It didn't matter 
where he was going. It would be safer than here. The Turtle whooshed by 
overhead. There were a few more rounds and then the gunfire stopped. Spector 
stepped on something that cracked. There was a groan. He held onto the joker's 
leather belt, which had WIDE LOAD painted on in gold.
No shit, Spector thought. But this was one time he was glad to have a fat freak 
as company.

6:00 P.M.
From the end of the corridor, Mackie watched the tall, thin man with 
coffee-and-cream skin close and lock the room door. 1531, just as der Mann said. 
It came to him that Amerika was decadent, even as his departed comrades of the 
Red Army Fraction used to say. Where else in the world might a man see a nigger 
wrap himself in a suit that cost more money than Mackie Messer had ever owned at 
one time in his life, and stroll out upon the town with a white woman on his 
arm?
To himself he laughed at his target's apparent attempt at disguise. She looked 
just like one of the ReeperbahnstraBe girls, armored against unaccustomed 
daylight. It was appro priate. Just a whore; just another fucking whore. Who had 
lured the Man and would pay.
They turned away from him, toward the elevators. He pushed off from the wall 
next to the fire extinguisher under glass. He couldn't do them here-he was 
already thinking them; it was only logical, he mustn't leave a witness-because 
this crazy bourgeois palace was hollow at the core, like the culture that built 
it, and anyone on one of a dozen levels could see everything that went on out on 
the catwalks surrounding the atrium. His move had to come on the quiet; der Mann 
had been very explicit.
But that was no problem. Mack the Knife was subtle, like. Like his song. He 
would follow, and know the time.
Maybe he'd ride the elevator with them. He licked his lips at the joke. That 
would be really kriminell. They'd never suspect him. They might not notice him 
even. Perhaps they were in love. Perhaps the black man had a hard-on.
He moved. A voice grabbed at him. "Hey, you. Not so fast."
He turned. A squat white man in a brown suit stood there with a wire hanging out 
of his ear. Hotel dick; Mackie had the gradations of cop burned into his 
autonomic nervous system by the time he was toddling the Sankt Pauli 
cobblestones. He had been as discrete as possible, staying back in the entry to 
the room where the ice machine lurked and clattered to itself, fading through 
the wall into a utility closet when people got too near. But there was a limit 
to how covert even Macheath could be, hanging out here over sixty meters of 
emptiness in this unsettling outside-in place.
The suit laid a hand on his arm. You couldn't do that, not to Mackie Messer.
"You're lucky," he said. He touched the man on the point of his cheekbone, 
buzzed a fingertip.
Blood started. The man cried out and doubled over, slapping a hand to his face. 
Mackie phased through the steel fire door and started running down the stairs. 
He didn't dare lose his quarry now. Women were always changing their minds; no 
knowing if she would be returning to this place.
Spector sat on the edge of the bed, feet tucked underneath him. He was almost 
surprised to find his room clean when he returned. It had been that long since 
he stayed in a hotel. He was alternately planning his next move and watching TV. 
Right now, the television had his attention. A local reporter, trying not to 
look out of his depth, was interviewing Hartmann in the lobby.
"Senator, do you feel Reverend Barnett had anything to do with this afternoon's 
disturbance?" The reporter held the microphone up to the senator, who paused 
before replying.
"No. I think that, whatever our differences, Leo Barnett would not stoop to such 
tactics. The reverend is an honorable man." Hartmann coughed. "But I do feel 
that those individuals who disrupted the meeting likely share many of his 
dangerously narrow views. It is precisely this kind of unreasoning bigotry that 
we must all struggle to eliminate. Leo Barnett wants to solve the problem by 
removing wild card victims from society. I want to overcome the hatred itself." 
Hartmann sat back in his seat, folded his hands and stared hard into the camera.
"The guy's fucking good," said Spector. "But it won't make any difference."
The camera cut back to the studio. A black woman reporter turned to her 
co-anchor. "Thanks to Howard for that interesting interview. Dan, what have the 
police discovered so far about the perpetrators of the disturbance?"
"Not much, I'm afraid. Several of them are in custody, captured by the Turtle, 
but the police are getting very little cooperation." The reporter tapped his 
thumbs together. "There are rumors that most of them are members of the Ku Klux 
Klan, but that's been unsubstantiated. Although the disturbance was obviously 
well-planned, none of the individuals involved claims to be the leader of the 
group. And so far, no clue as to where the authentic Confederate uniforms and 
muskets came from." The reporter frowned and turned back to the black woman.
"Well, I'm sure the authorities will keep us posted if any new information comes 
to light in this bizarre incident." The black woman shook her head. "Although 
dummy ammunition was used, several individuals were hurt in the panic that 
ensued." The video cut to earlier footage of the panic in the park, the 
cameraman was running with the rest during the panic, bouncing the picture all 
over. "At least one person, a street performer, was allegedly trampled to death. 
Ironically, he was believed to be playing dead at the time. His name is being 
withheld pending notification of next of kin."
"Fucking A," said Spector, punching the TV off. He was off the hook for that 
one, anyway. But that didn't get him any closer to Hartmann. He'd almost felt 
something holding him off for the instant that thev locked eyes. No. Just 
imagination. To do that he'd have to have powers like the Astronomer or Tachyon. 
"Astronomer for president," he giggled. "That'd make even Reagan look good by 
comparison. "
He popped up off the bed and walked slowly around the carpeted floor, 
considering his options. Killing Hartmann might be more than he was up to. He 
could take the money and go someplace else, another country maybe. :Maybe work 
for a casino in Cuba. Nope. He'd always done what he was paid to do. Fucking 
middle-class ethics again. Didn't stop him from killing people, but made him 
live up to a contract.
He sighed and walked to the phone. Tony was his only shot, he'd known that ever 
since they met in the lobby. It was kismet, or something. Didn't stop him from 
feeling like shit, though. He punched in the number and waited. An unfamiliar 
female voice answered the phone.
"Could I speak to Tony Calderone, please?"
"He's not available right now. Could I take a message?" The woman sounded tired.
"Yes, tell him James called. He'll know who you mean. Tell him I'd like to firm 
up that dinner invitation he extended."
Spector was almost surprised at how cool and polite he sounded.
"Yes, James, uh, what was your last name?"
"Just James. He'll know who you mean."
"I'll give him the message."
"Thanks." Spector hung up the phone and sighed. Maybe he'd order a steak from 
room service and hope the Peaches were on TV again tonight. If they're America's 
team, he thought, we're all in a shitload of trouble.

8:00 P.M.
Spotlights dazzled Jack's eyes. The long lenses of television cameras were 
trained on him like shotguns. An eddy of stage fright turned his knees to 
liquid. He hadn't done this sort of thing in years.
He looked up into the lights, gave the world a crooked grin-reflexes coming 
back, good-and said his line:
"The thirty-first state, the Golden State, is proud to cast its three hundred 
fourteen votes for the cause of joker's Rights and the next president, Senator 
Gregg Hartmann!"
A roar. Applause. Silly hats and flying ace gliders took to the air. Jack tried 
to look noble, cheerful, and triumphant till the spotlights moved off to the 
state chairman of Colorado.
Take that, Ronald Reagan, he thought. I'll show you how to work a camera.
He climbed down from the little red-white-and-blue podium that had been brought 
in for just this purpose. The guy from Colorado, not sure of his totals, was 
fumbling his line. Fortunately Colorado had gone for Dukakis and Jackson. The 
first ballot gave Hartmann 1,622 votes; Barnett 998, with Jackson, Dukakis, and 
Gore splitting the rest. Nobody was close to winning.
Chaos descended on the floor while media commentators made wise judgments and 
hedged predictions about what would happen next. Rule 9(c) went out the window 
once the first ballot was cast and floor managers were promising uncommitted 
delegates the moon.
The second ballot was called early, thirty minutes after the first, just so 
campaign managers could have enough numbers to see how things were going. 
Hartmann gained about fifty votes, mainly at the expense of Dukakis and Gore.
The convention burst into a series of sweaty huddles while media commentators 
tried to make up their minds whether fifty votes signified a "trend" toward 
Hartmann, or just a "lean." Floor managers went into fits at the thought of 
delegates slipping through their fingers.
The pandemonium went on four hours. By the time a sleepy-eyed Jim Wright called 
for the third ballot just before midnight, the three commercial networks had 
died of inertia and gone back to their standard summer fare of reruns and Johnny 
Carson, and only PBS was covering the action for an audience of a few thousand 
hardcore political junkies.
Hartmann hit an even eighteen hundred. The trend was solidifying. Hats and 
gliders zoomed ceilingward. Jack picked up his podium and threw it about a 
hundred feet into the air, a tumbling star-spangled sign of triumph, then 
reached out and carefully caught it before it could brain somebody.
The celebrations in Jack's suite went on for hours. He was stumbling off to bed 
before he realized that he really should have called Bobbie. Even if she turned 
out to be the starlet with the cellulite obsession, Jack figured he could have 
given her enough healthful exercise to make her happy.

10:00 P.M.
--Peachtree, tiled and echoic. They walked arm in arm. Sara had drunk two 
glasses of wine. It was the first alcohol she had had for over a year. She had 
never drunk much liquorexcept for the weeks after the tour.
Ricky was regaling her with the latest candidate jokes going the rounds. "How 
about this one: if Dukakis, Hartmann, and Brother Leo went boating together on 
Lake Lanier, and the boat's engine blew up and it sank, who'd be saved?"
"The nation," Sara said. "Last time I heard it, it was Reagan, Carter, and 
Anderson. But then, you're too young to remember."
"What goes around comes around, Rosie. But I was old enough to vote in '80, if 
barely."
"You probably think I'm a wicked old lady robbing the cradle." She frowned; 
where was that coming from? Steady, she told herself.
Ricky patted her hand. "I certainly hope so, Rosie." He laughed then, to show it 
was a joke. She felt the tension come into her, just the same.
A thin current of sound was running down the corridor, between the rocks of 
their laughter. "What's that song?" she asked.
He raised a brow at her. "Don't you know it?" She did, but she'd needed 
something to say. "It's `Mack the Knife.' Standby of every low-rent lounge 
singer in the northern hemisphere."
"The Muzak's broken in here, see, so they hired this white dude to walk around 
and whistle."
She laughed and squeezed his arm briefly. Damn. What am I doing? She looked 
around, almost as if seeking some external cause for her behavior.
Movement behind. Her tongue pushed out between suddenly dry lips; she made her 
face turn to the side, as if she was admiring the brash fashions draped on the 
headless silver-and-black-and-olive-green mannequins posing in a boutique 
window.
"Somebody's following us. No, don't look!"
"Give me some credit, Rosie. I'm a journalist, remember? I didn't sleep through 
your seminar."
He glanced to the side, then faced forward. "Just some kid in a leather jacket." 
A frown spoiled the smooth perfection of his forehead. "Looked like he had a 
hunchback. Poor son of a bitch. "
She looked back again. "Now, quit that, or you're going to turn into a pillar of 
salt. You were the one who wanted subtlety."
"I don't like the way he looks," she said. "He-feelswrong, somehow."
"The instincts of a seasoned ace reporter. Well-seasoned."
"is that a crack about my age?"
"The wine you drank." He patted her hand. "That's the spirit. Whistling past a 
graveyard, like. Walk on. Keep your head up. Never let them see you're afraid. 
It unleashes all those primitive Nordic predatory instincts."
She fought her neck muscles, which were trying to rotate her head toward the 
leather boy. "You think he could be one of Barnett's little helpers?"
"Been known to happen during this convention, Rosie. Wouldn't that be an irony, 
to get jumped on suspicion of being Hartmann fans?"
This time she did look back. He was sauntering along, hands in pockets, first 
the white shoe, then the black. Ricky was right, one shoulder definitely rode 
higher than the other.
There was something a little too elaborate about the way he wasn't paying 
attention to them.
At least he's small. But then, Ricky wasn't exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger...
Once around a curve, Ricky grabbed her hand and they took off running, Sara 
wobbling on her ingenue heels, Ricky's Guccis slapping the rubber runner. The 
passageway wound round and around. She kept looking back, saw no sign of 
pursuit.
They slowed, Sara puffing for breath, Ricky gracious enough to pretend to be 
winded. "One more turn and we're back in the Hyatt," Ricky said. "Another 
potentially ugly confrontation avoided. That's how we eighties types handle 
things."
They turned the bend and there he was. Leaning with his back and his cheek 
against cool tile, sizing them up. He started to whistle: "Mack the Knife."
Sara grabbed Ricky's wrist and hauled him back around out of sight. "I'm not 
sure that's a good idea, Rosie," he said. "We should just bluff our way past. "
"Don't you see?" The terror was upon her. It glowed in her eyes like white-hot 
wires. "How did he get in front of us?"
"Some kind of service passage. We're right near the hotel. If he causes trouble 
we can make a lot of noise and someone will come rescue us."
And then he came out of the wall at them, lunging like a shark.
Like a dancer Ricky swung Sara behind him. "What the hell do you think you're 
doing?"
"Party party," the boy said with a Hans and Franz accent, laughing, spraying 
spittle from loose lips. "Everybody get down tonight."
There was a buzzing in the air, oppressive as the humid night outside Peachtree 
Center's artificial chill. The boy swung a hand karate-fashion for the side of 
Ricky's neck.
Ricky wasn't a racquetball ace for nothing. Nothing wrong with his reflexes; he 
blocked with a spidery forearm.
The hand went through it. There was a savage shrilling moment like a buzz saw 
hitting a knot in a plank, and then Ricky's forearm and splayed hand just sort 
of toppled.
Ricky stood staring at the red hoop of blood springing out the suit-coated 
stump. Sara screamed.
Ricky pointed his arm, hosing his own blood into his assailant's eyes. The boy 
fell back, sputtering and swiping at his face. Ricky hurled himself at him, 
windmill arms whirling. "Rosie, run!"
Her legs would not move. Ricky was pummeling the boy with stump and inexpert 
fist. It looked like the worst of playground bullying; Ricky was- a head taller, 
with a good six inches' reach--
That sound came again. She knew she would hear it every time she closed her eyes 
for the rest of her life. She smelled something like burned hair.
Ricky's arm fell off at the shoulder. His blood vomited over the wall, white 
with a mosaic sprinkling of blue and green and yellow.
He turned a martvr's face to her. "Rosie," he said, and his gums were shocks of 
blood, "Please run, for god's sake run-" The hand passed playfully. His lower 
jaw was sheared away with the rest of his words. His tongue flopped at her 
unmoored, a ghastly parody of lust.
She turned and fled, the charnel-house sound pursuing. As she rounded the corner 
the heel of her left shoe snapped. She went to her knee with an impact like a 
gunshot. She skidded twenty feet, bounced off a wall. She tried to struggle up. 
Her leg would not carry her; she fell heavily against the tile.
"Oh, Ricky," she sobbed. "I'm sorry." Sorry for blowing the escape he had bought 
her with his life; sorry for the strange guilty surge of relief down underneath 
the terror that she would not have to face the question that another night in 
his room would bring between them.
She began to push herself along with her hands, knees up, scooting sideways on 
her rump. He came around the corner, looking twelve-feet tall. Blood splashed 
his leather and his skin, unnaturally bright in the fluorescent light. He was 
smiling around teeth like a collapsing fence.
"Der Mann sends his regards."
Single-mindedly she sculled away from him. There was nothing in the world but 
the motions of a losing race.
-And voices, down the corridor, welling up from where the passage from the Hyatt 
dipped under Center Avenue. A party of delegates in Jackson buttons appeared, 
black, middle-aged, well dressed, talking happily amongst themselves about their 
candidate's last-minute upsurge at day's end.
The killer in leather raised his head. A brief pigeon of a woman in a salmon 
dress with a bow beneath capacious breasts looked up, saw him with the blood 
upon him and his victim strewn into the corridor bend behind. She jammed fists 
beneath her eyes and screamed like hell.
The boy's eyes blazed at Sara. "Remember Jenny Towler," he snarled. And walked 
through the wall.

11:00 P.M.
Mine!
Puppetman felt the searing, twisted menace approaching. Gregg turned as Mackie 
ghosted through the wall of his bedroom, a crooked smile set above his crooked 
shoulders.
There was a splotchy brown red stain on his right hand up to the elbow that 
could only be one thing.
Mine!
"All the fucking hotel rooms look the same," Mackie said. "Get the hell out of 
here," Gregg snapped.
Mackie's grin slid from his punched face. "I wanted to tell you," he said, the 
German accent broader than usual. "I offed the nigger. but the woman-"
Mine! He's mine!
Gregg was surprised that he was able to hear Mackie's voice over Puppetman at 
all. The power slammed relentlessly against Gregg's hold, again and again and 
again. Mackie's raw, violent insanity radiated wildly, leaking from the boy's 
pores with an odor of decomposing meat, and spreading out in front of Puppetman 
like a rotting banquet.
Gregg had to get Mackie away quickly or the tenuous hold he had on himself would 
be entirely gone.
"Out," Gregg repeated desperately. "Ellen's here." Mackie's mouth twisted, a 
sneer. He fidgeted, restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Yeah. I 
know. In the other room watching goddamn TV. They were showing Chrysalis's 
funeral. I saw her but she didn't see me. I could've buzzed her easy." He licked 
his lips. His nervous stare flicked across Gregg's body like a whip as Puppetman 
hammered again at the bars. "I don't know where Morgenstern is," he said at 
last.
"Then go find her."
"I wanted to see you." Mackie whispered it like a lover, a voice of velvet 
sandpaper. The lust was honeyed syrup, golden and rich and sweet.
Puppetman screeched in need. The bars in Gregg's mind started to crumble. "Get 
out of here," he hissed between clenched teeth. "You didn't get Downs, now you 
tell me you can't find Sara. What the hell good are you to me? You're just a 
useless punk, with or without your ace."
He'd always been easy with Mackie, placating the kid, feeding his ego. Even with 
Puppetman controlling the hunchback's emotions, he'd been afraid of Mackie; 
using him was like juggling nitroglycerine: it looked easy, but he was aware 
that he would only get one mistake. Gregg thought he might have made it now. 
Mackie's face had gone grim and cold. The lust did a quicksilver change to 
something simpler and more dangerous. Mackie's right hand was beginning to 
vibrate unconsciously as a threatening whine shivered the air.
"No," Mackie said, shaking his head. "You don't know. You're the Man. I love--"
Gregg cut him off. If there was going to be an explosion, it might as well be a 
big one. "I told you to take out two people who are a danger to us. They're both 
walking around now while you're telling me how good you are and how much I mean 
to you."
Mackie blinked. Twitched. "You're not listening-"
"No, I'm not. And I won't listen until all the loose ends are taken care of. You 
understand that?"
Mackie took a halting step toward Gregg, his hand up. The fingers were a 
dangerous blur.
Gregg stared him down. It was absolutely the hardest thing he'd ever done. 
Puppetman was a berserk thing behind his eyes, gibbering and frothing with the 
closeness of Mackie and the emotional backwash spilling around him. Gregg knew 
that he had only seconds before Puppetman surfaced entirely, before the mental 
bonds reversed and he would be the one underneath. Yet while he held Puppetman, 
there were no controls on Mackie and no way to dampen the madness. If the ace 
took another step, if he swiped at Gregg with that hand ...
Gregg shuddered with effort.
"Come to me afterward, Mackie," he whispered. "After it's all done, not before."
Mackie lowered his hand, his eyes. The red violence around him faded slightly.
"All right," he said softly. "You're the Man. Yes." He reached out with his 
hand, safely quiet now, and Gregg fought the impulse to back away and run. He 
concentrated on holding Puppetman for just a moment longer.
Mackie's dry fingertips traced Gregg's cheek with a strange tenderness, dragging 
across stubble.
Gregg closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Mackie was already gone.
Drawing his fingers down the strings, Tachyon pulled a sigh of music from the 
violin. The Secret Service agent swung his head in that heavy slow way of a bull 
confronting an irritant. Tach nodded politely to him. The man brightened 
considerably, cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, and quickstepped to where 
the alien was sitting cross-legged on the floor outside Fleur's room. Sounds of 
revelry drifted down the hall from a nearby room party.
"Hi."
"Hello."
"My daughter's crazy about you, and she'll kill me if she finds out I met you 
and hadn't gotten your autograph. Would you mind?"
"No, I'd be delighted." Tach pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Her name?"
"Trina. "
For Trina with love. He signed his name with a flourish. "Uh, excuse me, but 
what are you doing out here?"
"I'm going to play the violin for the lady in that room."
"Oh, a little romance, huh?"
"I hope. I won't make any trouble, sir. May I stay?" The agent shrugged. "Yeah, 
what the hell. But if people complain-"
"Not to worry."
Tach lifted his bow, tucked the violin beneath his chin. A few years ago he had 
arranged Chopin's Etude in A flat for solo violin. The notes fell from the 
strings like crystal beads, like water chuckling over stones. But beneath the 
joy was a strain of sadness.
The faces of women. Blythe, Angelface, Roulette, Fleur, Chrysalis. Farewell, old 
friend. The door to the hotel room was flung violently open. Tach stared up into 
her smoldering brown eyes. Hello, my love?
"What are you doing? Why won't you leave me alone? Please, please, just leave me 
alone!" Her hair flew about her face.
"I can't."
She was on her knees before him, hands gripping his shoulders. "Why not?"
"It makes no sense to me. How shall I explain it to you?"
"You've twisted and corrupted everything you've ever touched. Now you're trying 
to do it to me."
He didn't deny it. Couldn't deny it. "I think we could make each other well. 
Wash away the guilt."
"Only God has that power."
He tentatively touched a strand of hair with the tip of a finger. "You have her 
face. Can it be that you don't have her soul?"
"You damn fool! You've made her into something that never existed."
She jerked her head away. His fingers trailed across her cheek, and he felt 
moisture. The violent withdrawal carried her a few steps to his left. Fleur 
leaned her forehead against the wall, every line of her bodv etched in agony. 
Tach laid the bow across the strings. Played.
12:00 MIDNIGHT
In the latex clown's head mask, Gregg was simply another of the jokers trying to 
stay cool in the sticky Atlanta humidity. The temperature was stuck permanently 
in the low nineties; the breeze felt like a moving sauna. The mask was an oven, 
but he didn't dare take it off.
It had taken time to arrange his escape from the hotel. Ellen had finally gone 
to sleep, but there was no telling when she might wake. He hated taking the 
risk, but he had to do something about Puppetman.
The power had gained the strength of desperation. Gregg was afraid that its 
struggles were already too visible to outsiders.
Discarded Flying Ace Gliders transformed into Fucking Flying jokers crumpled 
underfoot as Gregg stepped over the gutter and into Piedmont Park. Shapes moved 
through the trees and around the grassy hillocks. Police swept the perimeter 
with regularity, trying to keep the jokers in and anyone else out, but it was 
easy enough for Gregg to slide past them in the darkness and enter the surreal 
world of the park.
Once inside, the city at his back was forgotten. A tent village had sprung up on 
one of the hillsides, spreading shouting laughter and light. A bonfire flickered 
close by; he could hear singing. The jokers passing in front of the fire threw 
long, shifting shadows across the grass. Deeper in the park behind the peaked 
tents, Gregg saw erratic phosphorescent brilliance there were enough jokers 
whose skin glowed, flashed, or radiated that it had become a nightly custom for 
them to gather on a hilltop at full dark like human fireflies: a UPI 
photographer's shot of them had become one of the more memorable images of the 
convention-outside-the-convention.
Gregg navigated through the park under Puppetman's guidance, following the tug 
of mental strings from the puppets within the crowd. There were many of them in 
the park, mostly longtime J-Town residents whose neuroses and foibles were 
familiar and much-traveled territory for Puppetman. Often he'd ignore them for 
the thrill that came from twisting some new puppet to his will, but not tonight. 
Tonight he was after sustenance, and an easing of the power's needs, and he'd 
take the quick, easy path.
One of the threads led to Peanut.
Peanut: a puppet since the mid-seventies, one of those he'd used during the 
tragedy of the '76 convention. The joker was a sad, simpleminded man whose skin 
had been turned brittle, hard, and painful. He'd been Gimli's associate within 
the defunct JJS, and his right arm had been hewn off by Mackie Messer just over 
a year ago-Peanut had come between Mackie and the Nur al-Allah's sister, Kahina. 
Arrested with others in the organization after Gimli's death, Peanut had been 
quickly released after Gregg's office interceded on his behalf.
Peanut had always been troubled by his friend Gimli's deep hatred of Gregg. 
Peanut had admired the Hartmann he knew. After his release, he'd even worked as 
a volunteer for the NYC campaign staff, canvasing the Jokertown district during 
the primary.
Peanut was like an old lover. Gregg knew all the buttons to push.
No one paid much attention to Gregg. Most of the jokers went bare faced, 
flaunting their jokerhood, but enough of them still wore the masks that Gregg 
was not overly conspicuous. He lingered at the edge of the tents, on the fringes 
of the crowd around the bonfire. He sat against a tree bearing a wind-tattered 
"Free Snotman" poster.
Sweat rained from his face onto the headlands of his Black Dog T-shirt.
He could see Peanut off to his right. Gregg dropped the bars around 
Puppetman-the restraints faded far too fast, emphasizing just how feeble was his 
hold on the power.
Puppetman lanced out toward Peanut, examining the colors of the joker's dim mind 
and looking for something .... tasty. The hues of Peanut's mind were simple and 
plain. It was easy to separate the strands and find the ones Puppetman could 
use. With Peanut, as with so many of the jokers he'd taken, those strands were 
linked to sex. Puppetman knew that-no matter how they might deny it-most jokers 
loathed their appearance. They hated the thing they saw in the mirror. Many 
found other jokers just as repulsive. Fortunato had been one of dozens who 
profited from that truth: there was a vigorous, thriving market in Jokertown for 
nat prostitutes willing to entertain joker customers.
Peanut suffered as much as anyone from the stigma. His body tissues were 
unpliable and ridged. His face looked as if he'd slathered mud over it and then 
baked it in the sun. At the joints of his limbs, the skin often cracked and 
split, leaving pus-filled, slow-healing sores and scabs. Peanut was ugly, and 
Peanut was just smart enough to realize how slow witted he was. For a nat, that 
was an unhappy combination. In jokertown, especially, it was far worse.
For Peanut (Gregg knew) sex was a rare mingling of pain and pleasure. His 
erections hurt and the leathery skin there cracked and bled from the friction of 
sexual contact. For days afterward he'd suffer.
Yet the wild card hadn't dampened the urges or stopped him from craving the 
release the act brought; if anything, his drive was stronger than normal. Peanut 
was a regular customer of the cheapest J-town whores; when he couldn't afford 
even their business-like ministrations, he'd masturbate in his flop, quickly and 
guiltily.
Puppetman knew that, knew it well. There were many times that Puppetman thought 
the wild card had been designed strictly for his benefit.
Caressing Peanut's mind, he saw the pulsing yellow of lust and knew that it had 
been days for him. The urge was there, already strong. Puppetman reached out, 
slowly brightening the color and saturating it,until there was room for little 
else. Gregg, watching, saw Peanut grimace. The joker rose and walked away from 
the fire. Gregg waited, then followed behind.
There were tints and shades within the golden primary: an orange wash of muted 
sadism; the azure desire for nats; a coral-green preference for oral 
stimulation. Puppetman had seen such facets in every puppet. Desire was always 
complicated and sometime contradictory. Normally such things remained subdued or 
even denied-stuff of fantasies and masturbatory visions, minor whorls in the 
flood. But Puppetman could make the tendencies flare, make them dominant 
passions. He could force someone to become a violent rapist or a humiliated 
slave; he could make them seduce a child or a friend's spouse.
It was a favorite trick.
Do whatever you want. Just make it quick. Remember Gimli ...
Puppetman snarled at the reminder. He prodded brutally at Peanut's mind and 
waited to see what would happen. Peanut wandered to the edge of the encampment 
where a stand of trees held darkness. He seemed agitated, his whole body turning 
as he glanced from side to side. Gregg watched from the cover of one of the 
tents as Peanut seemed to come to a decision and headed into the trees.
Gregg pursued.
He almost ran into the joker.
Peanut had stopped a few yards into the woods. Gregg could hear what had caused 
him to halt: the panting groans could be only one thing. Peanut was standing 
motionless, watching the hidden joker couple as they screwed. The colors of his 
mind were confused, uncertain.
Puppetman touched him again.
Feel it? You can't just stand there and watch. Look at her. Look at her legs 
wrapped around him. See how she moves her ass under him, lifting her hips so he 
drives in deeper, eager, and hot and wet. That could be you. You want her. You 
want to feel her legs tighten around your hips, you want to feel your cock deep 
in her warmth, you want to hear her sighing in your ear and telling you to fuck 
her, fuck her deep and hard and good until you explode inside her ...
Peanut tugged at his belt buckle with his one hand. The joker's pants pooled 
around his ankles.
But she won't want you. Not Peanut. You're disgusting and ugly, all hard edges. 
You're stupid. She'd be disgusted; she'd feel dirty and violated . .
Puppetman could feel the lust and anger building in concert. He orchestrated it, 
adding pressure until he felt it simmering. You'd have to be the master. It's 
what you want, what-she wants. I know you. I know what you've thought when you 
stroke yourself . . Puppetman was sighing himself, ready. Ready to feed at last.
Peanut squatted down, hunting in the underbrush. When he straightened, Gregg 
could see a thick branch clutched in his fist.- The joker raised the weapon.
Go ahead. Hit him and take the bitch. You want it. You must .
And Gregg heard deep, mocking laughter.
Gimli. Where are you, damn you! Gregg cursed. Where are you hiding?
Why, right here, Greggie. Right here. Gimli laughed and in that moment, the 
dwarf's wall slammed up as it had every time these past few weeks. Puppetman 
howled in frustration as the strings to Peanut were suddenly, jarringly, 
severed.
"No!" The shout might have been Gregg, might have been Puppetman. Puppetman 
flung himself against the mental barrier, trying to break through before it was 
too late. Peanut, startled, turned to see the figure in the clown mask. The 
stick dropped from his hand as the pair on the ground struggled to their feet.
What's the matter, Greggie? Can't control your goddamn pet?
Puppetman, exhausted and weak, cowered inside. Gregg fled, panicky at being 
seen. He'd never been caught before, never been noticed. Branches whipped at him 
as he ran blindly. Peanut shouted after him in alarm.
But there was no escape from Gimli's voice. Gimli was always there-as Gregg 
shoved his way through the tent encampment, as he stumbled from the park back 
into the streets, as he found his way back to the Marriott.
How much longer can you hold him, Greggie? the dwarf taunted. A day? Maybe two? 
Then the bastard's going to fucking eat YOU. Puppetman's going to tear loose and 
fucking eat you whole.
Spector couldn't see them across the lobby, but he knew they were there. A knot 
of people, Hartmann and his entourage, were moving toward him. There wasn't much 
noise. Spector took a step out to meet them. People were looking in his 
direction without noticing him. His pulse quickened as they got closer. Cameras 
flashed around Hartmann. Hartmann held out his hand to Spector.
Spector reached out and noticed he was wearing white gloves and a black leotard. 
People began to laugh and point. Spector gritted his teeth and locked eyes with 
the senator. He could feel Hartmann's blood boiling with pain, his ragged 
breathing, his heart trip-hammering into oblivion. An instant of satisfaction, 
then it was over. He fell to the floor. Absolute silence. The camera flashes 
continued, strobing around them. Spector kicked him over with his foot. It was 
Tony. His face was horrible, caught in a last scream.
Hartmann laughed and Spector looked up. He was surrounded by Secret Service. 
They drew their guns and pointed them at Spector. The barrels looked impossibly 
large.
Spector was opening his mouth to say something when the first shot took his 
lower jaw off. He tried to back away, but more bullets knocked him off his feet. 
Pieces of him were being ripped away. One of his eves went dark. He'd been shot 
before, but it had never been like this. He could feel the rain of slugs pushing 
his body across the floor. Several of his fingers were gone off one hand. He 
held up the other in front of his face. It was still perfectly white, not a drop 
of blood on it. His other eye went dark.
He screamed and rolled off the bed, then crawled underneath it. There was no 
sound of gunfire. He moved his lower jaw and hands. His eyes adjusted slowly to 
the dark. Spector slid out from under the bed and turned on the table lamp. He 
was alone in the room. The air-conditioner kicked on. He jumped.
"Fucking nightmare." He shook his head and pulled himself back up onto the bed. 
"Jesus, what a fucking nightmare."
He fumbled for the TV control and switched it on. It was another old movie. He 
recognized John Wayne. For some reason seeing the Duke calmed him down. He 
reached under the night table and pulled out his bottle of whiskey. There was 
barely half a swallow left. He picked up the phone to order another bottle from 
room service. Tomorrow he was going to find someplace else to stay. Somebody was 
going to miss the real Herbert Baird soon, and Spector didn't want to be staying 
in his room when the police came knocking. He could call the hotel from wherever 
it was he wound up staying to see if Tony had left a message. He wished like 
hell it was all over and he was back in Jersey.

CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday July 21, 1988
1:00 A.M.
"You bastard!"
The bow fell from the strings with a discordant squeal. Hiram glared down at 
Tachyon. His eyes, buried in pasty rolls of fat, glared red.
"Hiram, it is late. We are all under a good deal of stress. So, I'm going to 
ignore that."
Worchester struggled visibly for control, then said, "I've left twenty-seven 
messages for you starting on Tuesday evening."
Tachyon clapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh, Ancestors, Hiram, forgive me. Today 
... yesterday," he amended, checking his watch. "I was in New York for the 
funeral-"
"Did you see Jay?" asked Worchester. "Jay?"
"Ackroyd."
Memory kicked in Jay Ackroyd-a small-time private investigator, part-time ace 
and full-time friend of Hiram's. He was some kind of projecting teleport who had 
used his power on Wild Card Day 1986 to rescue Tachyon.out of a ticklish 
situation.
"Oh, him. No."
"Come with me. We have a major problem. One I think only you can solve. Thank 
God, it doesn't seem to be too late."
"If it had been, you really would have something to feel guilty about."
Tachyon snapped shut the violin case and fell into step with Hiram.
"So what is this all about?"
Worchester kept his voice very low. "Chrysalis hired an assassin."
"What?"
The big man snapped his fingers in front of Tachyon's face. "Wake up, Tachyon."
"Blood and line, I can't believe this."
"Believe it. Jay is seldom wrong about things like this. Even if he's somehow 
mistaken, can we afford to take a chance?"
Cold lead seemed to have settled into the pit of Tach's stomach. "Have we any 
idea of the target?"
"Jay thinks it's Barnett, but for safety's sake I think we can't rule out 
anyone. Security must be increased on all of the candidates. Our problem is how 
to alert the Secret Service without revealing all that we know. My god, it would 
all be lost then."
Hiram's voice faded to a basso rumble. The words lost meaning, and Tach sat in a 
private hell staring at the knuckles of his right hand as they slowly turned 
white.
"... he killed Chrysalis, and now he's going to kill me."
"You don't want to believe."
"Help me."
"NO!"
"Jesus Christ! Have you heard a word I've been saving?" Sweat had formed dark 
rings beneath the ace's armpits. "What are we going to do?"
"I'll tell the Secret Service that I was randomly skimming in a crowd, and 
picked up the surface thoughts of the assassin. His intent, but not his target 
or his method."
"Yes, yes, good." A new worry intruded. "But will they believe you?"
"They'll believe me. You humans are all so impressed by my mental powers." He 
patted Worchester's arm. "Do not worry, Hiram. We will stop him."
It was sheer bravado. And Tach had a feeling that Hiram knew.

5:00 A.M.
"You sure this is where you want out, ma'am?" the uniformed driver asked, 
craning to peer through the window at the tent city sprung up like post-rain 
mushrooms in Piedmont Park. Day was really starting to happen, paling the flames 
of the occasional camp fire dying on the trodden grass. "I'm sure," she said and 
stepped out. The air was already congealing with a colloid of heat and wet, and 
diesel fumes, and the smell of secretions, human and not quite. She shut the 
door. The cruiser pulled away.
She resisted the urge to shoot the car a bird. When she'd asked for police 
protection, they'd just stared at her. Hoping to contain hysteria and 
speculation, the Atlanta police were stonewalling on the Peachtree murder. Even 
Ricky's name was being withheld, ostensibly pending notification of his mother 
in Philadelphia. Sara's involvement had not been announced either; perhaps in 
part as a buy-off gesture, the APD spokeswoman was telling the press that the 
murdered man's companion was being held under protective custody.
Sara knew full well that the Atlanta police were trying to damp dynamite in a 
mason jar-the explosion, when it came, was going to be that much worse for the 
attempt. All the same she was glad of it. Ricky's colleagues would learn his 
identity soon enough, and infer that she was the woman who'd been' with him when 
he was slain.
She dreaded what would happen then. She didn't even have a stirring of 
temptation to use the inevitable interrogation to try to expose Hartmann. She 
knew how futile that would be; Tachyon had done his job too well.
She put on her broad-brimmed hat, hoisted the strap of her bag higher on her 
shoulder. The intrepid reporter-now free lancewalking among the wretched of the 
earth, not to mention the butt-ugly, gathering their stories of anguish and 
repression: an act good for a few hours in the middle of a crowd.
She was afraid to be alone. Deathly afraid.
She began to limp up the hill.

9:00 A.M.
Gregg didn't think he'd slept much at all the night before. The last ballot 
hadn't been cast until early morning, and then there'd been a mild staff 
celebration in the green room-he'd broken the eighteen-hundred-vote barrier. The 
hope was that the momentum would swing him to 2,081 and the nomination by 
evening. "Three hundred votes. Piece of cake," deVaughn had said.
And Gregg didn't care. He didn't care.
Gregg stood at the window of his suite looking down at the crowds swirling below 
in the morning sunshine-Hartmann supporters, mostly, from the hats. He rubbed 
his eyes, sipping on black coffee in a Stvrofoam cup. The coffee burned in his 
stomach; Puppetman burned in his head.
"Goddamn it, you have to feed me," Puppetman wailed, and with the voice came the 
presence's agony-that feeling of slow starvation.
"I can't." Gregg could feel that emptiness in his own stomach, a steady craving. 
"I want to, but we can't. You know that. "
"We don't have a fucking choice, not any more." Puppetman clawed at him with 
mental talons. Gregg's fingers clenched the heavy curtains. The sight of people 
walking in the morning sunshine mocked Puppetman's hunger. He wanted them. He 
wanted to leap down like a panther and ravage them. His fingers whitened with 
the intensity of his grip.
"Back in New York-" Gregg began, but Puppetman cut him off.
"Now! We won't get to New York for another week. I can't wait that long. You 
can't wait that long."
"What the hell do you want me to do?" Gregg raged back in desperation. "It's not 
me, it's Gimli. We have to do something about him. Give me another day," Gregg 
pleaded. "Now!"
"Please . ." Gregg was nearly sobbing. His head throbbed with, the pain of 
holding Puppetman back. He wanted to rip his skull open and gouge out the 
demanding power with his bare hands.
"SOON, then, goddamn it! Soon, or I'll make you crawl again. I'll strip you 
naked and make you beat yourself off in front of the press. Do you hear me? I'll 
eat you if I can't have anyone else. Gimli's right in that."
Puppetman raked his mind again and Gregg gasped with the pain. "Leave me alone!" 
he shouted. His knotted fingers tore the curtains from the wall in a fury. Thev 
crashed to the ground in a thunder of rods and hooks. Gregg hurled his coffee 
cup across the room, splattering the plush furniture and burning his hand. "Just 
leave me alone!" he screamed, his fingers dragging at his face.
"Gregg!"
"Senator!"
Ellen had come from the bedroom. At the same time, Billy Ray burst in through 
the hall door. Both of them stared at Gregg and the wreckage of the room, Ellen 
with a stark horror on her face, and her hands folded protectively over her 
stomach. "My god, Gregg," she said. It was a whisper this time. "I heard you 
arguing ... I thought there was somebody else here ..." Her voice trailed off.
Gregg blinked stupidly, shocked. For the first time Gregg realized that 
Puppetman had spoken out loud. He'd been holding a goddamn out-loud conversation 
with Puppetman and hadn't known. The horror of it made him moan.
Ellen glanced at Ray.
Billy looked from Ellen to Gregg, stared for long seconds. Then he backed out of 
the suite, closing the door behind him. Gregg was gasping in the middle of the 
room. He forced his breathing to slow. He tried to shrug, to pretend it had been 
nothing. "Ellen ..." he began, but couldn't say anything.
He was suddenly crying, like a child frightened of the dark.
Ellen came to him with a brave smile, cradling his head on her shoulder and 
stroking his hair. "It's okay, Gregg," she murmured, but he could hear the 
terror in her voice. "It's okay now. Everything's all right. I love you, 
darling. You just have to rest." Words. Just words.
Gregg could hear Gimli's laughter and-for just a moment-he wondered why Ellen 
seemed to ignore it.
"The great state of Iowa! God's country! Corn country!" (Tachyon wondered how 
the man could keep up this kind of enthusiasm after so many ballots.) "Casts 
four votes for Senator Al Gore!"
The Omni Convention Center made Tachyon think of a giant funnel. People, like 
tiny grains of spices, all clinging to the precipitous sides while gravity tried 
to tumble them willy-nilly into the level area of the basketball court. It was 
an exaggeration of course, but the facility did give the alien vertigo.
Dribbling powdered sugar down his coat front, Tachyon hurriedly balanced his 
cruller on top of his coffee cup, snatched up his fountain pen, and jotted down 
the number. Then glanced at the running totals in five columns each headed by an 
initial. Gore was definitely floundering. Only a matter of time now. Hartmann 
had crawled painfully to nineteen hundred. Tach drew the back of his hand across 
his gritty, aching eyes. His session with the Secret Service had lasted until 
five. By then it seemed pointless to go to bed.
"Your boy's in trouble," said Connie Chung, sliding into a folding chair behind 
him. The headset with its antenna made her look like a lopsided insect.
"My boy, as you put it, is doing just fine. Once Gore drops out-"
"You're going to be in for a rude shock."
"What do you mean?" asked Tach, alarmed.
"He's faced with a choice between three Northern liberals and a conservative 
Southerner. What do you think-"
"No," said Tach with loathing.
She brushed sugar from his chin. "You really are a baby at this, Doctor. Watch 
and learn." She started away then looked back and added, "Oh, by the way, Gore's 
called a press conference for ten o'clock."
The phone rang during Jack's first Camel of the day. For a moment he couldn't 
find his briefcase, then discovered it under the coffee table. He picked up the 
receiver and collapsed on the couch. His caller was Amy Sorenson.
"We're in trouble. Gregg wants your ass over here." Jack stared at the ceiling 
through gummed eyes. "What's the problem?"
"Gore's called a press conference for later this morning. He's dropping out, and 
he's gonna tell his people to support Barnett."
"That cocksucker! That yuppie cocksucker!" For once Jack wasn't conscious of 
using bad language in front of a woman. He jumped off the couch, knocking the 
coffee table halfway across the room. "He's going to be Barnett's veep, right?"
"Looks that way."
"Prince Albert in a fucking can."
"And some wild card talent carved up a member of the Fourth Estate in Peachtree 
Mall last night, so guess who's gonna be capitalizing on it. Just get over 
here."
The staff meeting couldn't resolve anything except to hold on and hope-for 
defections. Gore's endorsement couldn't be anything but the result of some major 
payoff, and it might offend some of his followers who couldn't stomach Barnett.
Hartmann gained another 104 delegates on the fourth ballot, so Jack's worst 
fears weren't realized. But Barnett picked up nearly three hundred, and the 
momentum was definitely his. On his little two-inch Sony, Jack heard Dan Rather 
relate stories of party power brokers trying to form an `anyone but Hartmann 
movement. Speculations about a dream Dukakis/Jackson ticket were spiced with 
pointed reminders that Jackson had more delegates, and perhaps the ticket should 
be Jackson/Dukakis. Analysts wondered whether Jackson was willing to eat crow in 
order to be vice president.
Apparently he wasn't. The ABH movement, as Rather began calling it, seemed to 
remain the fantasy of a few party hacks and the Barnett campaign staff, who 
regarded "Anyone but Hartmann" as the equivalent of "Why not the Firebreather?"
Anyone but Hartmann. Jack couldn't believe he was hearing this. Why the hell 
wasn't it Anyone but Barnett?
A secret ace, he thought. Maybe there's a secret ace. The Gremlins from the 
Kremlin as an alternate hypothesis was definitely losing ground.
At first it went well. Sara could do this walking in her sleep, the mechanical 
interviews, stuff of every third Sunday supplement article and human interest 
story on the tank town ten o'clock news: What's it like to be a joker in 
America?
It wasn't good journalism. It was something she specifically despised: 
families-of-dead-shuttle-astronauts, how-doesit-feel-to-be-raped reporting. But 
of course this wasn't journalism at all; it was survival.
It all went fine until she was recognized.
The jokers camped in the park came from all over: California, Idaho, Vermont, 
even a few from Alaska and Hawaii. While the better-read of them would recognize 
her name she was one of the premiere writers on wild card matters in the world, 
after all-she wasn't a broadcast journalist. Everybody knew Connie Chung's face, 
nobody knew hers. That had always satisfied her.
But there were a lot of her old buddies from J-town here, too. She hadn't even 
thought what their reaction to her would be until a furred, taloned hand took 
her shoulder and spun her away from the joker mother and two desperately 
disparate children she was unspooling inanities from, into a hot blast of 
spoiled-meat predator's breath.
"Just what do you think you're doing here?" a voice asked. The first panicked 
reaction was still echoing in the corridors of Sara's brain, it's him I wish I 
had a gun dear God Ricky Ricky, when she recognized the person who'd accosted 
her. She was hard to mistake: six feet from the black moist nose at the end of 
her wedge-shaped head to the tip of her tail, round-eared, bandit-masked, black 
guard hairs over buff fur shading toward silver on her belly, like a 
Disneymation anthropomorphic ferret made real. The only thing she wore was a 
green vest studded with Hartmann buttons and bitter joker slogans: WHY BE 
NORMAL? and JJS! and TAKE A NAT TO LUNCH. Sara knew her well; she should have 
been just another teenaged Italian girl wearing a dowdy, blue-plaid skirt to St. 
Mary's. She'd been busted for the first time at fourteen, during a Free Doughboy 
demonstration.
"Mustelina," she said. "Hi. How are you?"
"What do you think you're doing here, bitch?" Sara recoiled from her vehemence. 
It was amazing how the Disney people always missed details like the two-inch 
fangs curving from her upper jaw.
"What do you mean?" The time she'd spent among jokers had inured her so she 
didn't flinch away from the girl's breath. Mustelina's joker had included a 
compulsive craving for live meat. Fortunately there were a lot of rats in 
Jokertown.
A crowd was accreting. Many of the jokers from the sticks were anonymous behind 
masks, but the J-town contingent tended to parade its jokerhood, wearing 
disfigurements like proud stigmata. She recognized Glowbug and Mr. Cheese and 
Peanut with his hard-shelled stump and a strange look in his eye. They had been 
her friends. There was little friendship here now.
"You know real well what I mean. You sold us to Barnett." She blinked, tears 
starting hot. "What are you talking about?"
"You're the one tried to smear Senator Gregg," a Southern voice said from behind 
a Kabuki mask with eyebrows halfway up a domed white forehead.
"You turned on Hartmann," Mustelina said. "You turned on us. You got a lot of 
nerve coming here like this."
"Yeah, traitor," somebody else called. "Nat!"
"Fucking Jew bitch!"
She tried to back away. They hemmed her on all sides, the faces of grotesques by 
Goya and Hokusai and Bosch, hostile masks of feathers and plastic smooth as 
bone. Why did I come here? These are Hartmann's people.
Suddenly Mustelina was snatched right out of her face and thrown fifteen feet. 
She curled into a ball, rolled, came up bottling and popping like a string of 
firecrackers.
A vast white figure loomed over the incipient mob. It held out a chubby hand, 
pallid and shiny as uncooked dough. "Come on, Thara," it lisped in the voice of 
a black child. "I'll take you where it'th thafe."
She clung to the hand. Doughboy started forward with his rolling gait and Sara 
at his side. The crowd gave back. He was nonviolent. He also weighed in at 
upwards of six hundred, and had the strength of three or four nat men. In his 
own way he was quite irresistible.
"I thaw you on Mechano's televithion," Doughboy said. "You were thaying terrible 
things about the Thenator. Everybody thaid you were a twaitor."
She looked up at him. His face was an unpitted moon. He smiled without lips or 
teeth.
"You are my friend, Thara. I knew you'd never do nothing wrong."
She hugged him. She also kept walking. This was an ideal place for Hartmann's 
marionette to hit her, it had belatedly occurred to her. For that matter, if it 
hadn't been for Doughboy's arrival, his work might just have been done for him. 
Some of the crowd was still trailing along behind.
"Will you bwing me some candy sometime, Mith Thara?" Doughboy asked. "Nobody 
brings me candy since Mithter Thyiner went away."
He stopped at the street and faced her. "When will Mithter Thyiner come back? Do 
you think he'll come back soon?"
"He's not coming back, honey," she said gently. "You know that." It had been a 
stroke, that January. Doughboy found him paralyzed on his mattress in their 
little Eldridge Street apartment, carried him through the streets weeping and 
begging for someone to help fix Mr. Shiner. He reached Jokertown Clinic before 
an ambulance with a heavy enough suspension to carry him could be found-nobody 
was going to try to separate him from his friend and guardian. By that time 
there was nothing even Dr. Tachyon could do.
Tears rolled from Doughboy's button eyes. "I mith him. I mith him tho."
She reached up. She wasn't tall enough. He bent over until she could wrap her 
arms around his neck.
"I know you do, honey," she said through her own tears. "Thank you for helping 
me. I'll bring you candy soon. I love you."
She kissed his cheek and walked quickly away without looking back.

11:00 A.M.
"Doctor!"
He studied the handsome dark face, the intense eyes actively scanning the lobby 
of the Marriott. Missing nothing. Tach bowed slightly. "Reverend."
"Deserting the floor of the convention?"
"Too chaotic."
"And disappointing?" suggested Jesse Jackson softly.
"It will be all right." Tach cocked his head speculatively. "And you, entering 
the stronghold of the enemy?"
"Gregg Hartmann is not my enemy."
"Ah, then you would have no objection to dropping out, and handing your 
delegates to the senator?"
Jackson laughed. "Doctor, you beat me to the punch. May we talk?" He indicated a 
sofa near one wall of the upper lobby. AP, Time, the Sun Times, and the Post 
began circling like barracuda. Straight Arrow, the Mormon ace from Utah, and 
Jackson's ace bodyguard, eyed them with an unblinking stare. The news of 
Tachyon's bombshell had spread quickly through the security forces. To Tachyon's 
knowledgeable eye the lobby seemed filled with discretely armed men.
"Wouldn't your suite be more private?" asked the Takisian dryly.
The flash of white teeth behind the mustache. "Private is not what I'm after. 
Let 'em speculate."
Tachyon debated. Decided that perhaps he and the Reverend Jackson could use one 
another. Some might speculate that Tachyon's support of Hartmann was wavering. 
Others might decide that Jackson was about to endorse Hartmann.
They settled onto the sofa. The tall black man, the diminutive alien with one 
leg tucked up beneath him.
"I want you to transfer your support to me," said Jackson bluntly.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. I'm the logical candidate to represent the jokers and aces. 
Together we can build a new world."
"I've been here forty-two years, Reverend, and I'm still waiting for that new 
world."
"You must not give in to cynicism, pessimism and despair, doctor. I hadn't 
expected that from you. You're a fighter-like me. " Tachyon didn't speak, and 
Jackson went on. "We have the same interests."
"Do we? I want to see my people protected. You want to be president."
"Help me become president, and then I can protect your people-a-ny people too." 
He frowned at the far wall. "Doctor, my foreparents came to America on slave 
ships. You came here in a spaceship, but we're in the same boat now. If Barnett 
becomes president we all suffer."
Tachyon shook his head more in confusion than negation. "I don't know. Gregg 
Hartmann has been our friend for twenty years. Why should I abandon him now?"
Help me. Kill me. Believe ine. He ruthlessly silenced the voices.
"Because he can't win. The senator is stalling. My people are reporting 
"Anyone-but- Hartmann" coalitions springing up all over the convention. If Gregg 
Hartmann can't stop Leo Barnett, Michael Dukakis certainly cannot."
"And you can?"
That self-confident grin that had galvanized a country. Like an arc light in its 
intensity. "Yes, I can." The smile faded, and he stared intently down at 
Tachyon. "I understand. I know abandonment, and people being mean to you, and 
saying you're nothing and nobody and can never be anything. I understand." His 
hand gripped the Takisian's shoulder.
Tachyon laid his hand over Jackson's. The same perfectly manicured nails, the 
same long slender fingers, but white on black. "Why is it when you and Barnett 
are reputed to serve the same god, your gods are so different?"
"A good question, Doctor. A very good question."
A Flying Ace glider sighed softly onto the tile at Tachyon's feet. He picked it 
up, stroked the molded white scarf with a forefinger. Jackson stared at the 
painted black face. His hand rose reflexively, and he drew his fingers down his 
cheek.
"Is your reluctance to back me entirely due to your loyalty, or is it because 
I'm black?"
Tach's head snapped up. "Burning Sky, no." He rose. "Believe me, Reverend, if I 
should ever decide to transfer my support from Gregg Hartmann you would be my 
first choice."
"You see, you have a charisma that is almost Takisian in its magnitude."
Jackson smiled. "And I take it that's a compliment?"
"Of the highest, Reverend, of the highest."
12:00 NOON
Gregg's room-service lunch sat untouched and cold on the coffee table of the 
suite. The Sony blared unheeded, and Tachyon sat like some damn wooden god on 
the couch.
Dangerously near the surface, Gregg could hear Puppetman's voice, mingled with 
Gimli's mocking laughter. It took all of his concentration not to lose himself 
in the subliminal chatter and say something that would reveal the conflict 
underneath.
Worst of all, Gregg was afraid that Puppetman might start speaking out loud 
again.
He paced restlessly in front of the windows. The entire time he could feel 
Tachyon's violet gaze on him: judging, appraising, cool. Gregg knew he was 
talking too much, but the motion and the monologue seemed to help keep Puppetman 
down.
"Barnett's up another hundred votes in the last ballot. One-hundred votes! We've 
gained what-twenty, twenty-five? Someone's got to start plugging the holes, 
Doctor. Hell, Charles said he'd talked to Gore's staff and was told Gore was 
planning to stay in. That was just last night, for chris'sakes. Barnett must 
have promised him the damn VP spot in return for the delegates. We've got half 
the press yapping about an `Anyone but Hartmann' movement, which means some of 
the on-the-fence delegates are going to start believing it. Barnett's already 
benefited from that garbage; Dukakis is back there smiling and shaking hands and 
waiting for the deadlock or a deal."
"I know all this, Senator," Tachyon said. There was a trace of impatience in his 
voice as he folded delicate hands on his lap.
"Then let's start doing something about it, damn it." The alien's cool 
haughtiness made Gregg's temper flare, and Puppetman rose with the irritation. 
No, idiot, he told the power. Not with him here, of all people. Please.
"I'm doing what I can," Tachyon said with clipped, precise words. "Browbeating 
those who support you isn't likely to get you anywhere, Senator. Especially not 
among your friends."
Gregg had no 'friends', no confidants-unless he counted Puppetman. He suspected 
Tachyon was the same. They called each other 'friend,' but it was mostly the 
residue of a political/social relationship that went back to the mid-sixties, 
when Gregg was a councilman and, later, mayor of New York. Gregg had performed 
favors for Tachyon, Tachyon had done the same for him. They both affected the 
politics of the liberal, the left. That far they were friends.
Tachyon was an ace. Gregg was afraid of aces, especially aces who could read 
minds. He knew that if Tachyon suspected the truth, the alien would not hesitate 
even one moment in revealing Gregg to the public.
So much for friendship. The thought made Gregg angrier yet.
"Then let's talk frankly. As friends," Gregg shot back. "The talk is all over 
the convention. You've been chasing Fleur van Renssaeler like some horny 
teenager. There are things here more important than your gonads, Doctor."
Gregg had never dared to speak to Tachyon that way before, not to a person with 
such a formidable mind power, not with Puppetman lurking in his head. Tachyon 
flushed a deep red. He rose to his feet with swift offended dignity. "Senator-" 
he began, but Gregg wheeled around with a chopping motion of his hand.
"No, Doctor. No." Gregg's anger was a glowing coal stuck in his chest. He wanted 
to use his fists on the prissily dressed man and see that fine, aristocratic 
nose flatten and splatter blood over the frillv satin shirt. Gregg gritted his 
teeth to keep from shouting in fury, from backhanding Tachyon's arrogant face. 
He ached to kick the man in his goddamn alien balls. It wasn't only Tachyon. It 
was the whole frigging day-the way his momentum had come to a wheezing halt on 
the convention floor, the eternal gnawing of Puppetman, the chortling of Gimli, 
Mackie's failures in New York and here since Chrysalis's death, Ellen: 
everything.
For just a moment, he wondered if Puppetman hadn't fanned the embers. The 
thought cooled hire. He grimaced. "I need you. You can pretend to be just a 
correspondent, but everyone knows better. You're a very, very visible 
supporter," he told Tachyon. "Everyone is extremely aware of your help with my 
campaign and our stand on the wild card issues. How does it look to the rest of 
the convention if the good doctor is obviously more concerned about getting laid 
than with making sure his candidate is nominated? Priorities, Doctor. 
Priorities."
Tachyon took a deep breath in through his nose, lifting his chin. "I don't need 
to be lectured like some errant child. Not by you, Senator, and especially not 
after I've spent the entire morning working for you. I find your accusations 
extremely distasteful."
"How distasteful will it be if Barnett is the next president, Doctor? He may 
pretend to be compassionate, but we all know what will happen. Do you think 
you'll still have funding for your clinic? Is what will happen to the jokers 
then worth a few minutes of grunting passion between a woman's legs?"
"Senator-" Tachyon uttered in outrage.
Gregg laughed, and the sound had a manic, cutting edge. He was sweating, his 
Brooks Brothers shirt ringed under the arms. "Doctor, I'm sorry. I apologize for 
offending you. I'm being blunt because I'm concerned. For me, yes, but also for 
the jokers. If we lose here, everyone affected by the wild card loses too. You 
understand that, I know."
Tachyon's lips were a thin, bloodless line. The angry flush lurked on his high 
cheekbones. "I understand better than anyone. Senator. It would do you good to 
remember that."
He spun on his toes in a graceful ballet turn and strode quickly to the door. 
Gregg thought that he'd stop and say more, but Tachyon simply walked out, 
nodding to Billy Ray stationed outside.
"Not even a fucking exit line," someone said in Gregg's voice.
Gregg wasn't sure who it was that spoke.

1:00 P.M.
A scuffle had broken out between a member of the New York delegation and an old 
woman from Florida. The two women had gone from shoves to the teeth-bared and 
hands in-claws stage. Hiram, blood suffusing his face, eyes almost popping with 
fury, flung chairs aside and rolled toward them. At the tiered wedding-cake 
podium Jim Wright was banging desperately and ineffectually. He gaped as the 
head broke clean off the gavel, and went sailing away into the crowd.
Tachyon, end-running through the milling throng, saw Hiram clench his fist, then 
an indescribable expression washed across the ace's face, leaving his expression 
as blank as a beach after a retreating wave. The plump manicured hand fell open 
and hung limply at his side.
The old bat was wearing a Barnett button and a large wooden cross. For an 
instant the Takisian hesitated; then, seeing the sharp toe of the Florida 
delegate's shoe lifting for a kick, he threw caution to the wind, and 
mind-controlled the both of them.
The press arrived. Security arrived. Fleur arrived.
"How dare you! Let her go!" Fleur dropped her arm protectively over the Barnett 
delegate's shoulder.
Tach noted that Hiram had a grip on the New York madam. He bowed jerkily. "With 
pleasure, just don't let her hit me."
"OH MY GOD! HE CRAWLED IN MY MIND! HE POLLUTED ME! ALIEN-"
"Madam, I make it a point never to pollute ladies of your age and situation with 
my precious alien fluids. Or my precious alien time."
"Bastard!" Fleur swept the sobbing woman away.
Hiram drew a hand across his brow. "Not tactful, Tachy."
"I'm not feeling very tactful. This is a disaster."
"This overcrowding makes fights inevitable," said Hiram. They settled into some 
empty chairs. Even Tach's knees were practically at his chin, so closely packed 
were the chairs. With a furtive glance for security or cameras the Takisian 
unlimbered his flask. Hiram gulped down an enormous swallow of brandy, choked, 
and suddenly Tach was shivering in distress as tears started rolling down 
Worchester's fat cheeks to mat in the heavy black beard. Sobs shook the massive 
body. Tachyon threw his arms around Hiram, patting, rocking, soothing. A string 
of nonsense words, endearments and reassurances poured from his lips. His own 
voice was jumping.
The emotional storm passed, and Tach offered his handkerchief. Hiram touched his 
brow, lips with tentative fingers. "Sorry. Sorry."
"It is quite all right. We are all under such strain."
"Tachyon, he has to win!"
The alien glanced from the wild, staring eyes to Hiram's hands closed vise-like 
around Tach's arms. The human's knuckles were turning white from the pressure. 
Tachyon lightly touched one hand, and said very softly and very gently. "Hiram, 
please, you're hurting me."
Worchester released him like a sprung trap. "Sorry. Sorry. Tachyon, we have to 
do whatever it takes, don't we? This is too important to leave to chance ... to 
the good will of others. This is one time when the end may justify any means. 
Yes?"
Eyes closed Tachyon remembered Syria. Jokers being stoned to death in the 
streets before the bored or avid eyes of the nat passersby. South Africa. A 
time, not so very long ago, when it wasn't considered a crime to rape a joker 
woman just a lapse in taste.
"Yes, Hiram. Maybe you're right."
Patting the restaurateur absently on the shoulder Tach went in search of Charles 
Devaughn. What he was considering . . , no, committed to doing ... was insane. 
Certainly unfair. But when had a Takisian ever been concerned with fair play? No 
sense approaching committed Barnett delegates. That would only arouse suspicion, 
and the affects might not last. But the uncommitteds ... if they had a change of 
heart after some fervent politicking from Devaughn and the ohso-persuasive and 
the oh-so-charismatic Dr. Tachyon... . And Michael Dukakis? He could afford to 
lose a few. His only hope now was to be selected as the vice-presidential 
candidate... .
It just seemed to sail down out of nowhere and into her hand. She barely had to 
move or will and she was holding it. She walked down Harris studying it: a 
plastic J. J. Flash Flying Ace glider, with holes carefully burned through its 
body and wings with a hot wire or rod. The face had been pen-blacked to oblivion 
with careful malice.
A couple of little black kids were wandering past in the other direction, 
staring at all the funny people. "What's you got there, lady?" asked the one in 
the Run DMC T-shirt.
She looked at the thing in her hand without comprehension. "A fucking Flying 
joker," she said.
The room wasn't as nice as the one he'd had at the Marriott. There were old 
wooden blinds instead of curtains; the bedsprings creaked, and the pastel paint 
was peeling around the baseboards. The motel was forty-five minutes from 
downtown and he'd had to slip the desk clerk a fifty to get the room. Still, 
Spector felt much more comfortable here. There was an all-night liquor store 
down the block and a burger place across the street. He was finishing up a 
greasy doublemeatdoublecheese and trying to come up with some kind of believable 
lies to tell Tony. He still had his Marriott room key, so getting into the hotel 
would be no trouble.
They'd talk about old times mostly. At least, that was what he hoped. His life 
before drawing the black queen was a hopeless blur. He didn't think about his 
past much, and considered the future only slightly more. Mostly he thought about 
death. Not because he liked it, but it was hard not to. Death put everything 
else into insignificant perspective. If all the politicians and lawyers and 
corporate hotshots understood the reaper the way he did, they'd never bother to 
get out of bed in the morning.
Spector picked up the phone, an old beige rotary model, and dialed the Marriott. 
After about twenty rings there was an answer. "Marriott Marquis." The voice was 
curt and whiny.
Probably the little jerkoff who'd been at the desk when he checked in.
"Yes. Any messages for 1031?"
They put him on hold without so much as a "one moment" or "let me check." 
Spector drummed his fingertips on his thigh. They were probably making him wait 
on purpose.
Worse, they might have figured out what happened to Baird and were tracing the 
call. That would take at least a minute or two. He'd wait a few more seconds.
"Yes. Mr. Calderone says to meet him in the lobby at six this evening." Click.
"Fuck you, too," Spector said, rapping the mouthpiece on the edge of the 
nightstand. He tossed the receiver into the cradle and headed for the bathroom. 
Why was it ritzy hotels hired assholes? The little clerk was moving up the list. 
His chances of living out the week were even slimmer than Hartmann's.
3:00 r. M.
The CNN glass press booth hung like a vision of heaven at the top of the center. 
Tachyon labored wearily up the steps. Mentally preparing for another round of 
talks with journalists.
A strata of society that shared a good many traits with carrion birds, he 
decided bitterly. Must have a story. The more tragic, horrifying, terrifying the 
better. Hartmann's star, so bright at the beginning of this long campaign trail, 
seems to be sadly dimming in the white-hot fires of this Democratic convention. 
The unctuous commentator mouthing the silly metaphor. But it seemed to be 
becoming a self-fulfilling prophesy.
The door to the press booth opened. Fleur emerged. The stairway suddenly became 
unbearably claustrophobic. They were going to meet face to face. It was 
unavoidable. Tachyon steeled himself. Suddenly Fleur's high heel slipped from 
beneath her, and she pitched headlong down the stairs. Calf muscles burning with 
strain, Tach vaulted up the steps, and caught her just before her dark head 
connected with the concrete. Her chignon had jerked loose, and strands of sable 
hair hung about her face. He righted her, and a few more hairpins fell pattering 
to the floor.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes." She pressed a hand to her forehead, looking about in confusion. "I 
could have been killed." His arms were still around her. She glanced down, 
raised hesitant eyes to his face. "You're still holding me."
"My apologies." He began to withdraw. She laid her hand on his shoulder holding 
him in place. Tachyon felt her thigh, firm beneath the silk skirt, weld itself 
to his. His cock stirred.
"You could have let me fall. It would have been natural after ... after the way 
I've treated you."
"I would never let you .. fall."
Fingers, as soft as butterflies, explored his face, traced across his lips. "You 
saved my life."
"You exaggerate."
Fleur pressed her body to his. Tach groaned softly as his penis stiffened to 
rigid and aching attention. Suddenly she cupped his face between her hands and 
kissed him. All vestiges of control vanished. Tongue probing deep into her 
mouth, he gripped her buttocks. Their panting breaths set an odd counterpoint to 
the roll call droning up from the floor. Tach's hands played frenziedly across 
her body.
Fleur broke away. Struggled to rebutton her blouse. Tachyon gripped her 
trembling fingers.
"Here, let me."
"Take me to your room."
He looked up, fingers frozen on a button. She lifted his hand, bit down hard on 
a forefinger.
Help me.
A cry from his soul? Or a random thought from Fleur? He ignored the plaintive 
voice.
"We can't be seen leaving together," whispered Fleur. He handed her his room 
key. "I'll follow ... soon."
Jack's phone bleeped again. It had been ringing all through his lunch at the 
Bello Mondo and the other patrons were beginning to get annoyed. The Speaker of 
the U. S.
House of Representatives, in fact, was scowling at him from the next table. Jack 
offered Jim Wright of Texas an apologetic look, opened his case, and took out 
the handset.
"This is Tachyon. I am calling from the press room. I must leave, and I require 
someone here with your kind of charisma."
"What for, exactly?"
"I will inform you when you arrive. Please hurry."
"Hey. Don't give me this Takisian-royalty-in-a-hurry crap." But Tachyon had hung 
up.
Jack contemplated grinding the telephone to dust. Instead he finished his last 
bite of dessert, overpaid, and fed the maitre d' his C-note.
The distance from the Marriott to the Convention Center was precisely one 
unfiltered Camel in length. Jack's neck prickled. He and Fleur van Renssaeler 
jostled in a door leading to the Convention Center. Psychos-his third wife had 
been a real nut case made him nervous. Despite the way Fleur spooked him, Jack 
gave her a jaunty wave and grin, received a close-lipped smile in return. He saw 
a Marriott room key in her hand and figured she was heading to the hotel to give 
some reporter a blow job straight from God, maybe convert him to Barnett's 
cause.
Tachyon was waiting just beneath the ABC skybox, wearing his cavalier coat with 
the slashes and turnbacks, the riding breeches and boots. The alien's face was 
strained. When he saw Jack, the violet eyes flashed.
"What took you so long?"
"Hi, to you, too."
"It's imperative that you speak to the press immediately." Waving his plumed hat 
under Jack's nose.
"Fine." Jack tipped another cigarette out of the pack. "What am I supposed to be 
talking to them about?"
"This 'Anyone-but-Hartmann business. If the media keeps harping on this, it will 
become a self-fulfilling prophesy. "
"Okay." Jack grinned as he lit the Camel. "Is Connie Chung in there? And if 
she's married, is her husband here?"
"This is no time for-" Tachyon began waving the hat again, then abruptly 
swallowed his words. Color blossomed on his cheeks. At the sight, a cold, 
despairing certainty settled into Jack's mind.
"It's Fleur, right? That was your hotel key she waved at me."
"She did not wave-" The alien swallowed his words again. Tachyon drew himself up 
to his full princely heightwith the heels, about eight inches below Jack's-and 
glared with furious violet eyes. "I will not have my personal life questioned. 
This is no affair of yours."
"Darn right it's no affair of mine. I turned her down a few days ago."
Tachyon showed his teeth. "How dare you! Do you know who you're speaking to?"
Jack took a measured breath of smoke. "I'm talking to someone who's being led 
around by his dick, which is pretty funny, considering how long it's been since 
you last got it up."
Tachyon flushed red with anger. Cold fear touched Jack's spine at the thought 
that he'd gone too far, that this was someone who had been raised to kill at the 
slightest insult, who had in fact once sworn to murder Jack and might decide 
that he'd ignored the vow for too long . .
But instead Tachyon just brushed past him, heading out of the Convention Center. 
Jack followed, his long legs keeping pace easily with the aliens quick step.
"Tach, okay, that wasn't fair," he said. "The point is, Fleur did make a pass at 
me the other day."
"I don't believe you." Tachyon spoke through clenched teeth, his boot heels 
tapping rapidly on the concrete.
"She's trying to embarrass the campaign. You know how much the whole Sara 
Morgenstern business cost us. There might be half-a-dozen network cameramen 
behind a two-way mirror watching you when you screw."
"In ... mg ... bedroom?" Tachyon's measured answer came out as a half shriek.
"It's still a setup. Will you listen?" He grabbed Tachyon's arm. "It's a 
fucking--"
"Leave me alone!" Wrenching his arm free.
"She's a psycho. She's not her mother. Understand? She's not Blythe."
Tachyon stopped walking and spun to face Jack. His face was drained of color. 
"Do not," he said, "let that name past your lips ever again. You have not earned 
that right."
Jack stared at him, his annoyance turning to boiling anger. "This is for your 
own good," he said. He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and picked Tachyon up 
and put him under his arm.
He started walking for the Omni Hotel while the alien kicked and struggled.
"Blood and bone! Let me down!"
"I'm going to find a cold shower and put you in it," Jack said. "Consider it 
your penance for throwing that bomb at me in Paris. If you want to get laid 
after that, I know a Miss Peachtree who will be glad-"
Jack stopped moving. He put Tachyon down. He marched up the ramp to the stair 
leading to the skybox. He dropped the cigarette to the concrete floor, ground it 
under his heel, and stepped in.
Then he blinked, took a long breath, and tried not to collapse. Tachyon had just 
shredded his mind like a newspaper torn by a high wind.
Reporters waited, scattered around tables and looking bored. Some were staring 
at him. Summoning nerve from someplace he didn't know he had, Jack gave them a 
smile and wave, and stepped forward to say his piece.

4:00 P.M.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No." Her arms were folded protectively across her breasts.
He hefted the bottle. Alcohol was sometimes an inhibitor. He quickly replaced 
the bottle. Hugged his elbows. Stared at the floor. They were separated by feet. 
It might have been light years. Never had he felt so gauche.
The hiss of silk brought his head up. Fleur's skirt puddled on the floor about 
her feet. She studied the far wall with frowning abstraction as she swiftly 
unbuttoned her blouse, unsnapped her bra. The heavy breasts swung free. She was 
larger bosomed than her mother had been. Tachyon couldn't decide if he liked it. 
His mouth was dry from nerves. He watched her buttocks dimple as she climbed 
into the bed. "Wait," he forced out.
"Let's do this." As a come-on line it lacked something. He jammed his hands into 
his pockets. Took a quick turn about the room. He noted his erection was back.
"I'm scared."
Propping her elbows on her knees, hands hanging loosely between her legs in 
front of her dark snatch, Fleur said dryly, "That's my line."
"Help me a little."
"How?"
"Undress me. Be loving with me."
She swung off the bed, and took hold of the lace cravat at his throat. 
Unbuttoned his shirt, and pushed it off his shoulders. Tach, standing with 
closed eyes, could feel her hair brushing at his skin. The scent of vanilla and 
spice washed across him-Shalimar. Blythe's scent. It brought it all back so 
strongly. That hot summer day in '48, the crackle of petticoats as he embraced 
Blythe, the smell and taste of Shalimar as his lips explored her neck.
Fleur slithered down the length of him like a worshiper at some ancient altar. 
Her lips were pressed to his belly as she opened his pants, and pulled them down 
over his hips. His erection throbbed in time to his beating heart. In a frenzy 
he kicked off his shoes, and struggled to free himself from the confining 
material of his pants. Fleur laughed, husky and low, as he lost his balance and 
sprawled on the floor. Kissing, clutching, panting, punctuating the desperate 
flow of endearments with deep groans, they lurched toward the bed. A single bead 
of sperm squeezed from the head of his cock. Terrified that he would lose it 
Tachyon spread her legs, murmuring Takisian obscenities like a pagan litany. The 
lips of her labia closed about him.
The touch of her mind. Roulette. Poison, death, terror, madness.
He began to lose it. The iron leaching from his penis. Suddenly other hands 
tangled in his long hair. A sweet husky voice encouraging him.
The muted click of the beaded curtains blowing gently in a hot breeze. The 
scratchy recording of "La Traviata" throwing sound, like shards of light, 
throughout the apartment. Blythe in his arms.
He drove deep within her. Gave a shrill cry of triumph. Blythe. Blythe. Blythe. 
6:00 >P.M.
Night was coming. She was sure of it. Sitting beneath a potted plant's notched 
ear in the Marriott lobby she could feel it slouching rough-beast-like toward 
downtown Atlanta.
When it came, it would thin the crowd. Remove, one by one, the forest of 
walking, talking trees in which she hid. Until there was no cover. It was simple 
mathematics: if safety was numbers, subtraction equaled death.
Night was the natural environment of Hartmann's hunchbacked puppet. She knew 
that. As she knew night would soon or late be born.
She had to find an indivisible one to protect her. Or the creature that clung to 
the fur of night's black belly would have her.
Tachyon had failed her. So had Ricky-though his failure had been of the noble 
variety, and had bought her twenty-four hours of air time. She had to find 
someone with the strength to shield her, someone who would accept the only coin 
she had to pay with. Before day's placenta burst.
She knew just the man.
The band was playing "Stars Fell on Alabama," which Jack hoped to hell wasn't 
some kind of political signal. After eleven futile ballots, almost anything 
could be taken for an omen by weary and desperate delegates. Jack hoped the song 
was only a crowd soother after the day's seventh fistfight on the floor, this 
last between a Jackson delegate defecting to Hartmann and a floor manager who 
was trying to change his mind. There was a motion on the floor to give up and go 
home for the day, something that was perfectly in tune with the delegates' 
premature weariness. Jack moved through his crowd to find Rodriguez.
"Listen, ese. We've stayed solid for Hartmann so far. "Right.
"Everybody's going to come after us tonight. One crack in the facade of solid 
California and people are going to figure it's open season."
Sweat was pouring down Jack's face. There were sopping stains under the arms of 
his tailored shirt. At some point that afternoon the air-conditioners had given 
up.
"Call a meeting after dinner. Nine o'clock. Everyone attends. "
Rodriguez looked at him. "What's the meeting about?" "Who gives a damn? We'll 
figure out something. We just need to count heads, make sure none of the other 
guys' people are talking to ours. If we keep our delegates busy, we can keep 
them out of other people's camp."
Rodriguez gave a grin. "What you gonna do after that, man? Bed checks?"
"Something like that." Rodriguez's grin faded. Jack spoke quickly. "We're all 
blocked together at the Marriott. I want you to put someone you trust on each 
floor, check people in and out, make a list, get IDs. We can't stop the wrong 
people from visiting ours, but we can make sure they're seen when they do. "
Rodriguez looked dubious. "You've seen all the hookers outside. We're supposed 
to get their names?"
"Just do it," Jack snapped.
Damn. His temper was unraveling along with everyone else's.
"Barnett's people are trying to compromise us," he said, lowering his voice. 
"One of their bimbos for Christ is fucking Tachyon even as we speak."
Rodriguez looked horrified. "Okay," he said. "I'll see to it."
Jim Wright looked relieved as he gaveled the convention to an early close, 
leaving the networks frantically trying to schedule hours of prime-time reruns.
Jack's temper growled in his mind as he crowded out the door. The whole thing 
had gone on too long, two days of balloting following two days of procedural 
fights, and all in the middle of a sweltering Georgia summer. Fleur van 
Renssaeler was off fucking Tachyon, hoping to accomplish god-knew-what, and Tach 
had left Jack to face the media unprepared.
Not only that, Connie Chung was clearly prepared to stay faithful to her 
husband.
At least he had his table waiting at the Bello Mondo, and a whole night before 
him. It had been a week since he'd last got laid. He had nothing better to do 
tonight than rectify that oversight.
There was another message from Bobbie waiting for him at the desk, but there was 
no answer when he returned her call. He showered, changed, endured the horrors 
of the glass elevator as he descended from his room to the Bello Mondo. The 
waiter, recognizing him, brought his double whiskey without being asked. And 
then Sara Morgenstern, looking like someone had recently connected her to a car 
battery, sat opposite him. She was clutching a shoulder bag to her chest as if 
it were all she owned.
"Mind if I join you?"
He looked at her. She wore clothes well, even the rumpled blue-and-white prom 
dress she had on at the moment, but her white-blonde hair was disordered and 
there was an unsteady look in her sunken eyes.
"I don't want to hear about it, Sara," Jack said.
"Can I borrow one of your cigarettes? I'm feeling a little-out of sorts. I saw a 
murder last night."
"The one in the mall?"
Sara's hands trembled as they extracted a Camel. "It was an ace," she said. "A 
weird twisted teenage kid. He cut Ricky to pieces. Right in front of me."
Jack decided he didn't want this woman's company for even a second. "Sara," he 
said.
She looked up at him. There was too much makeup around her eyes, he noticed, 
trying to hide the effects of a sleepless night.
"The point is," she said, trying to smile, "I don't want to be alone tonight."
Which maybe changes matters, Jack thought. He reached into his jacket for his 
lighter and lit her cigarette. She inhaled and began coughing uncontrollably. 
Tears sprang to her eyes. "Jesus," she said. "What are these?"
"The kind I learned to smoke in the Army."
"I used to smoke Carltons in college. I really shouldn't start again. Oh, hell." 
She stubbed the cigarette out as if driving a dagger into her worst enemy.
"Have a drink. It lasts longer." Jack signalled the waiter. At least, he thought 
nobly, he'd be taking this loose cannon out of play for a few hours, maybe a 
whole night. All this and get laid, too.
He looked at Sara and an idea came to him.
Maybe he could take her out of play for a lot longer than he first thought.
The North Expressway was jammed, but Tony jockeyed the black Regal through it 
effortlessly. Spector was glad they weren't eating at the Marriott. There was 
considerably less chance of someone recognizing him away from the hotel. Tonv 
had on a tailored, dark-blue suit and matching tie. Spector was in gray. His 
suit still smelled like the store.
"Where are we headed?" Spector asked.
"LaGrotta." Tony whipped across two lanes of traffic to take the Peachtree exit. 
"If I get us there alive. You'll love this place. Some of the best Italian food 
in town. Not New York, of course, but you go with what's available."
"Yeah, well, thanks for taking time out. I know you're real busy right now."
"I haven't seen you in ages, man. You get priority." Tony smiled. That smile had 
been turning women's hearts to goo and winning over men for as long as Spector 
had known Tony. He was a hard guy not to like.
"How did you wind up with Hartmann?" Spector wanted to keep Tony talking about 
himself. That way he wouldn't be asking many questions.
Tony shrugged. "One improbability leading to another. I got a loan and managed 
to talk my way into law school. Did some work in local politics. Just happened 
to be on the winning side a few times. Somebody in Gregg's camp noticed me and, 
well, I'm ethnic. That doesn't hurt."
"Plus, you're good. Always were. Good jump shot, good line for the girls." 
Spector smiled. "Hell, you could talk a good Catholic girl out of her clothes in 
less time than it took the rest of us to comb our hair."
"It's a sin to waste a God-given talent." Tony wagged his finger at Spector. 
"And you know how I avoid sin at all costs."
"Right." Spector glanced out the window. There were dark clouds gathering above 
the treetops with patches of gray below where the rain was already falling. 
"Looks like we might get wet."
"My friend, for a meal like this you'd swim the Hudson over to Teaneck." Tony 
made a contented sound. He looked over at Spector and kissed the tips of his 
fingers. "Trust me."
Thunder rumbled overhead. "I trust you, old buddy." Spector wished he could say 
it was a two-way street.

7:00 P.M.
He woke suddenly. Filled with a sense of total well-being. Or perhaps filled was 
not the proper description. Empty, floating, freed at last from two years of 
pressure and anxiety.
Tach kicked free of the tangled sheets. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in 
the room. Realized with a thrill of disappointment that the bed was empty. Sat 
up, then relaxed back against the pillows at the flush of the toilet.
Fleur padded in, breasts swinging. She realized he was awake, and her arms 
crossed over her chest.
"Don't, I like to look at you."
"You're a heathen."
"Yes. You're a courtesan."
She lifted the drapes, and looked out. "That's not very nice."
"It was meant to be a compliment. Why haven't you married?"
"How do you know I haven't?" She leaned back against the window, one buttock 
cocked up on the narrow sill.
"I don't read married off you."
She stiffened. "Are you reading my mind?"
"No."
"You tried, the second time we did it."
"I would have tried the first time, but I was too busy trying to make certain 
that I stayed ... er ... firm."
"Don't read my mind!"
"All right. It makes sex better for me, but all right."
"I think it's horrible that you can violate people that way."
"Fleur, may I remind you that I didn't read your mind. I sensed your opposition, 
and I withdrew. I'm a very wellmannered person, not to mention charming and 
handsome and witty. .." There was no lightening of her somber expression, and he 
trailed away into embarrassed silence. He fumbled his flask off the bedside 
table, and took a swig. "Your mother wanted so much for you. Husband, children, 
home, happiness."
"I don't want to talk about her."
"Why not?"
"It's old history." She slid into the bed, her hand reaching for his cock. "I 
want you in bed with me, not with her."
Spector loosened his belt a notch. He'd had a salad and lamb stew. Spezzatino de 
Montone Tony had called it, sampling a bite to make sure it was up to par. Tony 
had eaten a chicken-and-almond dish with buttered rice on the side. They'd split 
a strudel with custard for dessert, and that had done it for Spector. He wasn't 
used to eating this much and could practically feel the food piling up at the 
back of his throat.
Tony sighed. "Did I tell you?"
"Just as good as advertised." Spector drained what was left of the wine in his 
glass.
"We've been so busy eating that I haven't had a chance to ask you who you're 
lobbying for."
Spector tensed. So far, they'd talked about the old neighborhood, girls, 
basketball, what had happened to people. Tony had been his only good friend 
during his school years. It wasn't that people hated Spector, they just didn't 
notice him. Tony was Mr. Charisma. They were unlikely friends, but close all the 
same. Tony's question reminded him that he was here to kill Hartmann. It was an 
unavoidable fact. "Well, let's just say my employers don't share all the same 
views as your senator." Spector didn't want to lie, but he sure as hell didn't 
want to tell the truth either. Better to compromise.
Tony nodded and rounded up a few stray crumbs of strudel with his fork. "You 
don't want to talk about it, that's fine. You got any feelings about the wild 
card victims, I mean personally?"
"It's a tough break." Spector knew that as well as anyone, having drawn the 
black queen himself. Only Tachyon had been stupid enough to bring him back. "But 
there's lots of tough breaks. Some people just get a few more than others."
"Don't you think jokers are getting kicked around, though?" Tony was looking 
hard at Spector. He had a stake in this, somehow. Something that went beyond 
political attitude.
"Sure. But what are you going to do about it." Spector picked up the bottle of 
Pinot Nero and poured himself another glass.
" Make sure their rights are protected, just like any other American citizen. 
That's what I want. That's why I'm working for Hartmann." Tony sat silently for 
a moment. "Don't think that's too much to ask, do you?"
Spector shook his head. "No. I've been around a lot of jokers. But it's 
different with them. Blacks, Italians, whoever else, they all still look like 
people. It's not their own fault, but plenty of jokers look like they should be 
in a zoo. Most people react with their guts, not their brains." Spector knew, 
he'd always gone with his instincts. If he hadn't gotten the virus himself, he'd 
probably hate the jokers like the rest.
Tony tossed his napkin on the table and signalled the waiter to bring the bill. 
"You got time to take a little ride with me?"
"Sure," Spector said, downing his wine. "What have you got in mind?"
"Just going to visit some friends of mine. Good friends. I'd like you to meet 
them." Tony smiled again. Spector couldn't say no.
"Maybe after we're done, you can introduce me to your boss. I'd like to meet 
him." Spector was uncomfortable, and it wasn't entirelv due to his bloated 
stomach.
"We might just be able to do that," Tony said. "But first things first."
Right, Spector thought, first things first.
All his old skills had returned. His aspect was truly upon him. Tachyon grinned 
down at his penis thrusting aggressively from the copper hairs of his brush. 
Laughing, he dove between her legs, nipping at her thighs, licking, teasing. 
Only one thing remained. To join completely with her. To join with her mind. He 
would do it when they climaxed, he decided. That would forever put the terror of 
Roulette behind him. Wriggling up her body, he sucked in one dusky nipple. 
Penetrated her.
Her thoughts were sharp, as jagged as glass. "You look just like your mother, 
and she was a slut ... slut ... SLUT."
A hateful voice. He hadn't heard it in thirty-eight years. Even filtered through 
the layers of Fleur's memories, Henry van Renssaeler still had the power to 
disgust.
"You better prove how much you love me."
"I love you, Daddy. I love you."
The soft cadences of Leo Barnett.
"Open your heart to Jesus, and all your sins will be forgiven you."
The rest followed in swift, hurtful images. Fleur's realization of how he was 
using his power on the uncommitted delegates. The faked fall. The pretended 
passion. The disgust and dislocation as she tried to come to grips with the fact 
that she was in bed with her mother's lover. Even as she clutched at his 
sweat-slick body, she was pretending that he was Leo Barnett.
Fury took him, and Tachyon was closer to striking a woman than he had ever been 
in his life. He took his revenge by finishing the act,with her, slaking his 
body's desires with hired meat. When it was over, he rolled out of the bed, and 
gathering up her clothes, tossed them on top of her. She stared at him, alarm 
shadowing the brown eyes.
"Get out."
"You read my mind-"
"Yes. "
"You violated me."
"Yes."
She was scrabbling into her clothes, wadding up her hose, and cramming them into 
her purse, smoothing the tangled hair.Pausing at the door,she flung at him," I 
accomplished what I set out to do. I kept you away from the convention."
"And you deserve something for your trouble." Tachyon dug out a pair of 
twenties, and slapped them into her hand. "Jack was right. You're not your 
mother. You are a slut."
She slammed the door behind her.
The air-conditioning was icy on his bare skin. Tach poured himself a drink, and 
took several deep breaths trying to slow his racing heart. Then as he lifted the 
glass to his lips, the door hit the wall with a report like a firing pistol.
Brandy sloshed across his chest and belly. "Oh, Ideal!"
"Expecting someone?" remarked Polyakov dryly as he eyed Tachyon's erection.
But there was a narrowness to the eyes, a tension to the jaw that made Tachyon 
think that the Russian's mind was anywhere but on Tachyon's sex life.
"If you could return your brains from your secondary head to your primary head, 
may we discuss a very serious problem?"
"Very funny." Tach padded to the dresser, and poured a fresh drink. Blaise 
settled cross-legged on the bed, and stared down at his hands. George stood 
solid and lumpish in the center of the room. "So what is this great and serious 
problem?"
"We were arrested."
"WHAT!" Tach turned like a slow-coiling snake on Blaise. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," he whined.
"Oh, no, just played master puppeteer with a joker, a Klansman, a neo-Nazi and a 
policeman," snapped Polyakov. Tach shook his head like a baffled pony. George 
continued grimly on, "You would think when he has a subtle and invisible power 
he would have the brains not to advertise when he is using it."
Something flickered between man and boy. Suspicious, Tach lanced out with his 
telepathy, but all he caught was the brittle edges of the passing thoughts. The 
flavor of conspiracy.
"They were all standing out there waving their dicks at each other. I was just 
giving them the opportunity to prove how tough they were. That stupid, ugly 
joker was trying to wimp out-"
"SHUT UP!" Even Tachyon jumped at the fury and command in the Russian's voice. 
Polyakov turned his back on the red-faced boy. "The preambulations of an 
adolescent, superpowered Caligula are not the problem. The problem is Henry 
Chaiken."
"Fascinating. And who by the Ideal is Henry Chaiken?"
"An AP reporter who used to be stationed overseas. He recognized me as Victor 
Demyenov, reporter for Tass."
"Blood and Ancestors." Tach's knees felt weak, and he felt for the edge of the 
bed, sat down hard.
"Naturally the police-"
Frustrated with the slow unraveling of the story, Tachyon snatched the memory 
from his grandson's mind.
The street flanking Piedmont Park. Glancing down to see the dusty footprints 
left by his tennis shoes on the hood of the car. The circle of sweating faces 
surrounding the little tableau. Mouths stretched with excitement, eyes 
glistening. Shrugging off George's clutching hands.
"Come on. Come on! Put your money down. Not on an ugly joker he's going to get 
creamed."
The cop giving a convulsive jerk as Blaise twitched the cord binding the human 
to the quarter-Takisian child.
"He's not going to help the joker. He hates them too. I know. I'm in his head."
"Soon after an army of police arrived, and Blaise discovered the limit to his 
power," continued Polyakov, not realizing that Tachyon had read it all.
A chill, like an icy finger, traced down his back as Tach considered that at the 
end Blaise had been controlling nine people. Tachyon's limit was three for full 
control, and that took a tremendous toll on mind and body. Nine. And he was only 
thirteen. And I've been training him. His eyes met the flat implacable gaze of 
the sullen boy.
"Chaiken was an interested spectator to all of this, and he found it interesting 
that my current identification did not match his memory of me. I gave them a 
story about changing my name as I changed my life, but if they are not complete 
fools they will check."
"Your papers?"
"Are very good, but a question to the wrong place. A photo shown to the wrong 
man..." Polyakov shrugged expressively.
"You have to get out of here. Out of the country. If you need money I'll give it 
to you-"
"No. I came here to do a thing. I will not leave."
"What about me!"
"You don't matter any more than I do. What I do I do out of a perhaps pathetic 
belief in an ideal. A familiar concept to you, Tachyon. You curse with it, 
believe in it. We're not so very different. We both have our honor. 
Unfortunately, it is always purchased with blood."
There was again that fleeting glance between the Russian and Blaise. Tachyon 
slipped beneath the teenager's imperfect shields.
"You may not use Blaise. I forbid it!"
An infinitesimal arch of the eyebrows. Polyakov's mouth twisted in a slight, 
bitter smile.
"I'll do whatever Uncle George wants," shrilled Blaise. "I will kill you first," 
said Tachyon, eyes locking with the Russian's.
"I'm not your enemy, Dancer. He is." A pudgy forefinger thrust at the ceiling, 
and the Hartmann suite seven floors above.
8:00 P.M.
Standing with the fronds of a fern falling across his face like bangs, Mackie 
Messer watched Sara and the big fuck leave the restaurant.
She'd been keeping him at bay all day, keeping to the crowds, never letting him 
have a shot at her alone. He'd thought surely she'd go to the room she shared 
with the nigger to take a shower; women were crazy about keeping clean. He'd 
never seen Psycho, so he didn't realize that was the last thing a woman of 
Sara's generation would do in circumstances like these.
The memory of offing the natty nigger made his lips smile. It had felt good, his 
hand on bone. But the rush had faded. He was hungry. He hadn't spotted Sara till 
midmorning, over in the joker park. He hadn't even had a chance to phase into 
some restaurant's kitchen and rip off a bite to eat. Hunger was feeding the 
frustrated anger that had been building in him all day.
The bitch. I have to kill her. I can't let the Man down. He was going to have to 
do something soon, something violent, to let out all that feeling.
And now she and her new boyfriend headed for the elevators, arm in arm. Going 
upstairs to fuck; women were all alike.
He followed, weaving among delegates who didn't deign to notice a twisted boy, 
got to the elevator stand in time to see them go into one and the doors close. 
He laughed out loud: "Yeah. Baby, baby."
All he had to do now was see what floor they got off on. Then he'd find them.
He licked his lips. I hope they're doing it when I catch them. He thought of the 
man's big cock going into Sara, and his hard hand going into him, and almost 
creamed his jeans.
Drinks, exhaustion, and a heavy meal had done their work on Sara. Her knees had 
gone rubbery, and she leaned on Jack as they shot upward in the glass elevator. 
Jack closed his eyes against a surge of vertigo. Then he thought of the bottle 
of Valiums in his luggage and gave an inward smile.
Sara was clearly on her last legs. She'd be out like a light within hours, and 
some time toward morning Jack was going to creep out of bed, find the Valiums, 
crumble a couple of them in a glass of room-service orange juice, and feed them 
to her with breakfast.
That, he thought, should keep the loose cannon from rolling around for most, if 
not all, of Friday.
Jack led Sara along the curving atrium balcony, then down a short hallway to his 
suite. "Piano Man" echoed up from the floor of the atrium. Sara stepped through 
the door and stood there, her heavy shoulder bag pulling her off balance. Jack 
put the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, closed and locked it, and put his arms 
around Sara from behind. Despite the alcohol her body was taut as a watchspring. 
He brushed the disordered hair from her neck and began to kiss her nape. For a 
while Sara didn't react, then she gave a sigh and turned toward him. He kissed 
her on the lips. She took her time about responding, finally put her arms around 
his neck, opened her mouth, let his tongue flicker against hers.
"There," Jack said, grinning. "It's better when you help." Which was the line 
that Bacall gave Bogart in To Have and Have Not.
Sara didn't smile. "I've got to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back, okay?"
Jack watched her walk unsteadily toward the toilet. A sinking feeling was 
beginning to envelope him. This was playing too much like his second marriage.
He took off his jacket and poured himself a whiskey. He could hear water running 
in the bathroom, then silence. Maybe she was fixing her hair or makeup. Maybe 
she was sitting on the commode, reliving the death of her friend.
Jack lit a cigarette and thought about the first time he'd seen violent death, 
when his company was caught in a German counterattack down Highway 90 between 
Avellino and Benevento, and he remembered that the experience hadn't made him 
feel very sexy, either.
Damn, he thought. This had the potential to be a very depressing night.
The bathroom door opened and Sara gave him a brave smile as she came into the 
room. She'd fixed her hair and makeup and looked quite different from the 
scarecrow who'd sat opposite him at dinner.
Jack stubbed out the cigarette and walked toward her. He was about to take her 
in his arms when a young hunchback in a leather jacket walked right through the 
wall behind her, grinned, and lunged forward with a hand thrust out like a 
spear.
Without thought, Jack picked Sara up, made a half turn, and tossed her gently 
onto the sofa behind him. The air burned with Jack's golden light. There was the 
shrieking sound of a buzz saw hitting a spike buried in a tree, a sound that 
brought Jack's hackles erect and sent a surge of adrenaline pouring through his 
body. Jack turned back to the intruder and saw a look of shock on his young, 
pale face. Jack flipped a fist at the little man, a gentle backhand strike, and 
in a flare of yellow light the leather boy was flung against the bathroom wall 
with a bone-breaking crash. The boy dropped to the floor like a rag doll.
Sara screamed as she turned and saw the assassin. Jack jumped involuntarily.
"I got him, Sara," Jack said. She'kept on screaming. He heard the sounds of her 
struggling to her feet.
Jack stepped forward toward the leather boy and leaned over him. The boy's eyes 
snapped open and his hands sliced out, flashing as if they were knives, and when 
they connected with Jack there was a flare of golden light, the screaming buzz 
saw noise, and bits of Jack's clothing flying like the fur of a fighting cat.
Jack didn't even feel the blows.
He picked up the boy by his leather jacket and held him at arm's length. The 
hunchback, as if he couldn't believe what was happening, kept hacking at Jack's 
arm, cutting the paleblue Givenchy shirt to ribbons.
Apparently, the little guy hadn't ever come up against an invincible opponent 
before.
"Kill him!" Sara's voice. "Jack, kill him now!"
Jack thought not. He wanted to knock this character out and find out who he was 
working for. He aimed a slow open-hand slap at the boy's head, one that would 
maybe put him out for a few hours.
The slap went through the hunchback's head without connecting. His other hand, 
holding the boy's jacket bunched up under his chin, was suddenly holding nothing 
at all. A dazed, triumphant grin passed across the boy's face as he 
drifted-drifted slowly, not dropped-toward the floor.
"Jack!" Sara wailed. "Jack, oh JesusJesusJesus ."
An edge of fear grated across Jack's nerves. He flicked out punches, one-two, 
and both passed through the boy without touching him.
The boy's feet touched the floor. His grin twisted and he dove forward, his body 
passing right through Jack, heading for Sara.
Jack spun and went after him. Sara was stumbling backward toward the door, 
holding her shoulder bag out protectively. The boy's hands sliced forward, 
hacking the bag in half with a ripping noise, like heavy cardboard torn by a 
buck knife.
Jack grabbed the hunchback's leather collar and jerked back with all his 
strength. The boy went insubstantial before his feet quite left the floor, but 
Jack had managed to impart a certain momentum and the boy sailed upward and 
back. Jack saw the pale face redden with fury as it disappeared through the 
ceiling. The lower part of his body remained visible as it shot back, then down.
"JesusJesus!" Sara was clawing at the hall door, trying to unlock it. "Oh, 
fuck!"
Jack had worked it out. The boy had to become substantial in order to use his 
buzzsaw hands. He was most vulnerable when he tried to kill.
It had been so much easier when all he had to do was grab cars full of fugitive 
Nazis and turn them upside down.
Sara got the door open and disappeared screaming into the hall. The leather boy 
soared back, his head appearing now, and Jack swiped at him a few times just in 
case he tried to turn himself solid again.
The hunchback kept sailing, went through the wall into Jack's back bedroom. 
"Hell," Jack said. He contemplated going through the wall after him and decided 
against it-he might get hung up partway through. He ran for the bedroom door and 
smashed through it in a bright flash of light. He saw the leather boy solid and 
on his feet, racing for the wall that led to the corridor outside. The assassin 
went insubstantial and dove through the wall head-first.
"Hell," Jack said again, reversed himself, ran for the hallway door.
The boy was just ahead of him. Sara wasn't visible, had probably run out onto 
the atrium balcony by now.
"Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" soared up from the ground floor.
Jack accelerated, swung a fist, missed the back of the boy's neck by inches. The 
momentum of the punch threw Jack off course and caromed him off the wall, and 
the boy drew ahead.
He must have heard Jack behind him, because as he reached the atrium balcony he 
turned, grinning his crazed grin. One buzz saw hand, just for demonstration 
purposes, sliced a chunk of concrete out of the balcony wall.
Jack was still moving forward with considerable momentum. He planted his feet in 
front of the kid and used his forward motion to torque his upper body forward, 
his right hand punching out toward the hunchback's chest with every ounce of 
strength he possessed.
The assassin went insubstantial.
The power of Jack's punch carried him over the balcony rail in a blaze of golden 
light.
She ran out the door and down the hallway because the stairwell had been closing 
in around her, about to grow an arm that would slice her in two. The terror was 
a solid lump in her throat.
She had no idea where she was going. A distant part of her mind observed that 
just now panic was her friend. Because she had no place to go, logically, and 
panic was better than despair.
I should just go back and offer my throat, she thought wildly. But her legs kept 
pumping.
And the wall did sprout a hand, and it did fasten about her wrist.
She screamed. It was as if her heart was exploding and the sound came out her 
mouth. She slumped in terror.
"Get up," a voice said, soft but peremptory. Accented. She looked up into the 
face of the old man who had accosted her after she bolted Tachyon's breakfast. 
Instead of his Mickey Mouse shirt he wore a lime-green leisure suit.
"Get up," he said again. "You know now what I told you is true."
She let him haul her to her feet, nodded. There were no words in her. She had 
lost her shoes.
"Then come with me. I'll take you to a place of safety." She came.
As the Marriott atrium yawned out below, Jack had all the time in the world to 
think of how stupid he'd just been.
He tumbled, arms and legs flailing. Balconies spun past. Vertigo and terror 
tugged at his belly.
He gave a yell, just to give people below a chance to clear out.
"Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" floated upward toward him.
It occurred to him to do something to stop the tumbling. Jack stuck out his arms 
and legs like a skydiver and tried to stabilize and slow his fall. His stomach 
lurched again as his body took a wild swing, but then the technique took effect. 
His vertigo lessened. The ruins of his Givenchy shirt fluttered out behind him 
like a flag, the remains of the sleeve snapping out little sonic booms close to 
one ear. His punch had carried him clear out into the atrium, there didn't seem 
to be a chance of guiding his fall so that he'd hit a balcony rather than fall 
all the way to the floor.
He tried real hard to think.
There were guy wires strung up here and there, carrying bits of colored cloth 
that were supposed to provide little abstract flags of brightness against the 
intimidating saurian rib-cage structure of the atrium. Jack tried to angle his 
fall toward one of these. Possibly it would break his fall.
Jack gave a yell again as his effort to guide his fall resulted in his pitching 
over headfirst. He flailed and stabilized, and then he wished he could think of 
something brave and inspiring to say. Not that anyone would hear it against the 
sound of the piano anyway.
He missed his intended guy wire by twenty feet. He began concentrating on trying 
to land where there weren't any people. He gave another shout.
Flying ace gliders danced and swooped below him, bright mocking spots of color.
People below must have heard, since they were trying to get out of the way. 
There was a patch of white down there that seemed to make a good aiming point. 
He tried to angle his fall toward it.
He could see individual people now. A blonde-haired black hooker, trying to run, 
but wearing such high heels that she could only hop like a sparrow. A man in a 
white tuxedo was staring upward as if he didn't believe his eyes. Hiram 
Worchester was jumping up and down and waving a fist. Earl Sanderson floated 
past him, wings spread, heading for the light. Jack felt a sudden wash of 
sadness.
Too late, he thought, and then wondered what he meant by that.
Suddenly the sound of the wind in Jack's ears seemed to diminish. He felt a 
lurch in his belly, like when an elevator begins to move. The ground wasn't 
coming up any faster.
He was lighter, he realized. Hiram had just made him lighter, but hadn't been 
able to stop his fall entirely.
The patch of white, he saw, was the grand piano. He was about to plunge into it.
At least, he thought, he wouldn't have to listen to that stupid Argentina song 
again.
Spector could tell they were headed into Atlanta's jokertown. The Jokertown was 
in New York, but most other major cities had a ghetto for their freaks, too. The 
buildings were crumbling, burned-out, or otherwise beat to pieces. Most of the 
cars on the street were stripped or immobile junkers. There were slogans 
spray-painted on walls, "KILL THE FREAKS" or "MONSTER MASH." Obviously not put 
there by the neighborhood jokers. Atlanta's jokertown wasn't big enough to keep 
crazy nats from making a quick trip in to tear things up or kick some joker ass.
Spector heard a rumble that wasn't thunder and looked behind. There was a 
pink-and-white '57 Chevy tailing them. The muffler was shot and the car was 
making a lot of noise. Spector couldn't see well enough to know for sure, but 
figured there were some cracker punks inside.
"Don't worry about it," said Tony, pulling up against the curb beyond a dead 
Rambler.
"Who's worried?" Spector wasn't just talking. He'd killed more street punks than 
he could count. He opened the car door and looked over at Tony.
"Follow me." Tony walked around the car and trotted up a set of concrete stairs 
to a well-lit doorway. He pressed the doorbell and waited.
Spector walked up slowly behind him, keeping an eye on the street. The Chevy had 
cruised past them and turned the corner. He could still hear it over on the next 
street.
The door opened. A joker woman in a plain blue dress smiled at them. She was 
covered with something that looked like yellow rubber hair. "Tony!" She grabbed 
Calderone and gave him a hug. "We didn't expect to see you this trip, busy as 
you are."
"Never miss a chance for a visit, Shelly, you know that." The woman took a step 
back and tugged Tony in by his shirtsleeve. Spector followed.
"Shelly, this is Jim Spector, an old friend of mine from Jersey." Shelly looked 
puzzled for a moment and Spector was afraid she'd placed his name. But an 
instant later she held out her hand. Spector took it. Her rubbery hair felt 
creepy, and her flesh gave too much as he squeezed it.
"Nice to meet you, Jim," she said, pulling away. She turned back to Tony. "Why 
didn't you tell me you were coming? And bringing company, too. I'd have cleaned 
up the place."
Tony shook his head. "Shelly, my place never looks this good."
Spector looked around. The room was surprisingly clean. The furniture was 
inexpensive, but was dusted and polished. A black man was sitting on the couch 
watching a movie. This family, like almost all joker families, had nothing to do 
with blood relations. Their deformities were what brought them together.
"This is Armand." Armand turned around when Tony said his name. His jaws were 
hinged wrong, making his mouth a vertical pink slit. He had no lips or nostrils 
that Spector could see. Armand shook Tony's hand and then reached out to 
Spector.
"Nice to meet you," Spector said, taking the man's hand. It felt normal, at 
least.
"Kids in the den?" Tony asked, taking a step toward the next room.
"Yes. Playing cards, I think. Would either of you like some coffee?" She looked 
at Tony and then at Spector.
Tony looked over at Spector, who shook his head. "No thanks, Shelly, we just had 
a big meal." Tony gave her a pat on the shoulder and went into the next room. 
Spector smiled weakly and followed.
They were sitting at a card table. The little girl, older by a few years, was 
pretty except for her arms. Up and down them were rows of what looked like rose 
thorns. The boy sat across from her, holding his cards in his prehensile feet. 
He had no arms, but his head was several times larger than normal. It was 
supported by a metal brace attached to the back of the wheelchair.
"Hi, Uncle Tony," they said together. Both seemed more interested in their 
cards.
"Hey, squirts." He sat down at the table with them. "I want you to meet a friend 
of mine. His name is Jim."
"Hi, kids," Spector said. He felt completely out of place and would have been 
more comfortable with a broom handle up his ass.
"I'm Tina," said the little girl, turning over a card. "Jeffrey." The boy didn't 
turn to look at him. It looked like it wouldn't be easy to do, anyway. He 
flipped over his card and laughed. His jack took her eight. He put both cards on 
the bottom of the deck. Jeffrey's stack was a bit bigger than Tina's.
"Playing war?" Spector asked. "Joker war," corrected Tina.
Tony looked up. "It's the same, except that jokers beat everything. And a black 
queen kills the other person's card." Tony smiled. Spector couldn't imagine why 
the fuck his friend was so happy.
Jeffrey took another trick. " I think he's got your number, Tina," Spector said.
Tina wrinkled her nose and gave him her best killing look. Spector took a step 
backward, pretending to be scared. Jeffrey didn't seem as miserable as he 
obviously should be. Spector wanted to kill him and save the kid a lifetime of 
hell, but that wasn't, as they say, in the cards.
"Mommy says we can watch a movie later," Tina said. She turned her cards over 
and let Jeffrey collect them. "The Manchurian Candidate is going to be on."
Tony sighed. "Politics, mind-control, and assassination. Not the kind of thing 
kids should be watching. I'll talk to Shelly and... "
"Don't do that Uncle Tony," Tina pleaded. She looked over at Spector. "Mister, 
don't let him do it. Mommy promised."
Spector shrugged. "Don't want to have to get rough with you, old friend."
Tony threw up his hands. "Democracy at work," he said, walking back toward the 
living room.
"Yay," said Tina.
"My queen kills your last ace." Jeffrey fanned the cards with his toes. " I 
win."
"Congratulations, kids," Spector said. "Sometimes that's what it takes. Just 
remember that."
After the crash, after he'd landed right in the middle of the piano and then 
driven through the floor to the function space on the lower level, the thing 
that surprised jack was that he started to float upward again through the hole 
he'd just made.
Hiram had made him lighter than air. Crap.
Before he could float out into space again, jack grabbed some of the twisted 
rebar that had been supporting the atrium floor. He hung upside down. Flashbulbs 
dazzled him. A TV floodlight drilled between his eyes. The pianist was lurching 
about like a drunk. From out of the burning light he could see Hiram peering at 
him out of his doughy face.
"There's an assassin loose!" he yelled. "Little guy in a leather jacket! He's a 
wild card!"
"Where?" Hiram goggled at him. "The senator's floor!"
Hiram turned dead-white. He spun and ran, arms and legs pumping. The crowd 
dissolved into pandemonium. "Hiram!" Jack yelled. "Worchester, goddamn it!"
He was still lighter-than-air. And he was the only one who knew what the 
assassin looked like, and how to stop him. The pianist danced before him in his 
white tuxedo. He pointed at Jack. "He tried to kill me! He threatened me 
earlier!"
"Shut the hell up," said jack.
The pianist turned white as his tux and faded away. Hiram's shot of antigravity 
diminished in a few minutes, and jack tried to run for an elevator. He was still 
very light and he bobbled like an astronaut on the moon. He kept jumping across 
the atrium without going near the elevators. Security people were in the process 
of barring all the doors, which wasn't going to do very much to stop someone who 
could walk through walls. Some stranger finally led jack to the elevator by the 
hand.
As jack shot upward, he tried not to think of the skinny hunchback sitting up on 
top, slicing the cables with buzz saw hands. The security was concentrating on 
the hallway leading to Hartmann's apartment and HQ. Billy Ray was prominent in 
his white suit, flexing his muscles in front of a battery of gray-suited Secret 
Service. Some of them were carrying their Uzis in plain sight.
Shaking pulverized concrete dust out of his ruined clothes, Jack walked up to 
Ray and gave him a description of the assassin, including the fact he could make 
himself insubstantial. Ray took his job seriously for once and didn't give Jack 
a single sneer. He passed on the information with his radio and asked Jack to 
step into another room for a debriefing. Jack asked if he could change first-his 
clothes were ribbons. Ray nodded.
Jack headed back to his room. As he stepped through the open door, he realized 
that he hadn't bothered to tell anyone that this was where the fight had taken 
place.
He headed for his bedroom and his foot hit something lying on the carpet. He 
looked down and saw part of Sara's shoulder bag. He bent down and shook it open. 
One-third of a laptop computer slid out, along with scraps of paper that 
fluttered to the floor.
Jack reached down and picked up the papers. There were several sheets stapled 
together and cut neatly off near the top, a press handout giving Leo Barnett's 
appearances for the days leading up to the campaign.
Another was the top of a yellow legal sheet written in scrawled blue ballpoint. 
"Secret Ace," it said, underlined several times.
Below were just doodles, a row of crosses, a tombstone. The next sheet was a 
photocopy on old-fashioned slick photocopy paper. It was obviously some official 
document.
DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, it said. DOD#864-558-2048(b)
BLOOD SERUM TEST XENOVIRUS TAKIS-A
The rest was sliced off.
Jack stared at it for a long moment.
The secret ace, he thought, might not be secret much longer.

10:00 P.M.
Spector was relieved when it was time to leave. Everyone said their goodbyes, 
except Armand, who didn't look like he could say anything. Tony slipped Shelly 
an envelope as they stood in the doorway. Spector figured there was a check in 
it. Shelly waved goodbye and closed the door. Spector and Tony headed down the 
stairs toward the car.
"You see what they're like if you give them half a chance," Tony said. "Oh, son 
of a bitch." He was looking at the car. Someone had spray painted "BARNETT. FOR 
PRESIDENT!" in six-inch yellow letters on the Regal.
Spector didn't say anything, but figured that the Hartmann stickers on Tony's 
car had made it too much of a temptation for the jerks with the spray paint. 
"What do you bet it was those shitheads in the Chevy?"
"Good guess." The voice came from behind them. Spector and Tony spun around. 
There were seven of them, clad in sweat-stained T-shirts and denim jeans. The 
largest had on a brown leather flight jacket. "We don't much like being called 
shitheads, though. I think we need to teach you some manners." There were grunts 
of approval from the others.
Spector had seen and heard it all before, but this time it was different. He 
couldn't just kill these punks, or Tony would figure out he was an ace. Seven to 
two was lousy odds. They were going to take a beating.
The boy in the jacket slipped on some brass knucks and walked straight toward 
Tony. The others spread out and moved in. Tony was in a crouch, fists raised. 
Spector moved over next to him. Hopefully, he could keep the guy with the knucks 
busy. It'd hurt, but he'd heal in a hurry. Tony wouldn't. At least none of them 
were showing knives or guns.
The leader took a wild swing at Tony and got a hard, straight right to the jaw 
as a reward. The kid was knocked back a step, but the others swarmed in. Spector 
caught one of the punks in the throat with a flailing elbow, but this wasn't his 
kind of fighting. They quickly hammered him to the sidewalk, and started kicking 
him in the stomach. Spector rolled into a ball and protected his head. They kept 
on kicking the shit out of him for a few moments, then stopped.
"Let's teach these joker-pokers a real lesson now." The kid spoke with the 
bravado only a pea-brained street punk can manage.
Spector rolled over and looked up. Tony was lying next to him, blood coming from 
his mouth and nose; eyes closed. He was out. The kid in the jacket pulled out a 
switchblade and clicked it open. Spector knew game time was over. He blinked a 
few times to clear his head before killing the kid.
There was a gunshot from the window behind them. The kid went down with a funny 
look on his face, his switchblade spinning off into the darkness. The other 
punks scattered before Spector could get up. The kid had gotten over the initial 
shock of being shot and was now screaming on the sidewalk. His right arm was a 
bloody mess between the shoulder and elbow.
Spector struggled up and kicked the kid in the mouth. "You shut up or I'll rip 
your tongue out, shithead." The kid stopped yelling, but still made pathetic 
mewling noises.
Armand came down the stairs holding a rifle. Shelly was a step behind, a rubbery 
hand over her mouth. Tina had her face pressed to the window and was peering 
down at the sidewalk. Porch lights, those that worked anyway, were coming on up 
and down the street. Several neighbors were headed toward them. Spector 
carefully rolled his friend over. Tony had a bad cut on his forehead, and 
several of his front teeth were chipped or split.
"Is he all right?" Shelly dabbed at the blood on Tony's face with her sleeve.
"He'll be okay, I think," Spector said, opening the back door and grabbing Tony 
by the armpits. "Help me lift him in. We need to get him to a hospital." Armand 
grabbed Tony's legs and they hoisted him into the back seat. Spector turned to 
Shelly. "You know where the nearest hospital is?"
Shelly nodded.
"Then get in the front seat and tell me where to go." Spector fished out Tony's 
car keys, closed the door, and walked around to the driver's side.
Armand grabbed him by the elbow and motioned to the kid with his head.
Spector coughed. "Tony would tell you to hand him over to the cops and hope for 
the best. Personally though, I'd cut his throat and feed him to the neighborhood 
dogs."
Armand's face changed, but Spector couldn't be sure it was a smile. He slid into 
the driver's seat and cranked the Regal up.
"Buckle up, Shelly," Spector said, fastening his seatbelt. She did as she was 
told. Tony groaned as Spector punched the accelerator. They screamed off into 
the night.

CHAPTER FIVE
Friday July 22, 1988
6:00 A.M.
The darkness should have been soothing. Instead, the air-conditioner droned like 
some slumbering evil beast and demons capered in the dim reaches of the ceiling. 
Gregg could feel his hands trembling. He tottered on the edge of an anxiety 
attack. The panic threatened to overwhelm him and set him screaming.
"Gregg?" Ellen whispered alongside him. Her soft hand touched his chest. "It's 
only six. You should be sleeping."
"Can't." He could barely even choke out the word, afraid that if he opened his 
mouth again he might start screaming. Her hand stroked his cheek, and slowly the 
panic receded, though the shade of it remained behind. He lay there stiffly, 
feeling Puppetman crawl inside at the touch, like a slug just underneath his 
skin. "I'll be glad when this convention is over, no matter what," Ellen said.
"I'm blowing it, Ellen." Gregg closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath that 
did nothing to calm him. The apparitions continued to dance behind his eyelids. 
"It's all falling apart around me, the whole thing."
"Gregg ... Love .. " Ellen's arms came around him, her body snuggling close, and 
she hugged him. "Stop. You're just letting the stress get to you, that's all. 
Maybe if you saw Tachyon, he could prescribe--"
"No," he interrupted vehemently. "There's nothing a doctor can do." Ellen drew 
back at his sharp tone, then returned.
"I love you," she said, empty of any other comfort.
"I know." He sighed. "I know. It's a damn good thing. God, you've been so 
understanding, the way I've been acting ... " For a moment, he was on the verge 
of confessing, of just letting the whole madness spill out just to have an end 
to it. Then Puppetman wriggled inside, a reminder, and he carefully pushed the 
power back down.
You can't say it, it told him. I won't let you.
"You're worrying too much. The nomination will come or it won't. If not this 
year, you'll be in a good position for '92. We can wait. We'll have time to let 
the baby grow up a little." He could feel her smiling bravely-her own little 
obsession. "You'll have enough to keep you busy with our son or daughter. A 
little part of us."
Ellen took his hand and placed it on the swell of her stomach just below her 
navel. "Feel it?" she asked. "It's been kicking up a storm lately. Getting more 
active every day, stronger. It's waking up now. There, feel that? Say hello to 
daddy, little one," she crooned.
Gregg suddenly wished that she was right, that it was over. Ellen had brought up 
the subject after the hectic months of the tour; he'd been surprised at how 
easily he'd agreed. It seemed right, a symbol of normalcy after the violence and 
hatred. It had taken months; he'd been so pleased when they'd found Ellen was 
finally pregnant. Despite everything, he'd wanted the child as much as she did. 
He'd enjoyed playing the proud, prospective father. Even the power within had 
seemed to share the happiness.
A little part of us.
Now he could hardly remember that at all. The pride and love and hope had been 
driven away by Puppetman's needs. There was a faint fluttering beneath his 
fingertips. Ellen laughed with the baby's movements.
Let the baby grow up a little.
And Gregg nearly pulled his hand away as if burned. The suspicion was like a 
physical blow. He knew, and with the knowledge, Puppetman howled inside.
The difficulties with Puppetman had started slowly and intermittently only -a 
few months ago. The Gimli-presence had been faint and weak and unformed then, 
easily pushed away. Getting more active every day, stronger.
"Oh, my god," Gregg whispered. The fetus kicked again, softly. He let the power 
slip out, just a touch. He looked inside Ellen, at the primal colors of the 
fetus.
There, wrapped around the child's emotional matrix like some strangling vine, 
there were other hues. Very familiar tints and shades.
Gimli had said it: No, not dead. Just changed. It took me a long time to get 
back . .
"I can't believe it myself, sometimes," Ellen laughed. "It's so incredible to 
feel it, to know that this life-our child-is growing inside me."
Gregg lay wide-eyed, staring at her stomach and his hand. "Yes," he told her. 
"Yes, it's incredible."
"I wonder who it'll look like?" Ellen patted Gregg's hand. "I'll bet it'll take 
after you," she said.
It can't be true, he told himself. Please don't let it be true. But he knew it 
was.

7:00 A.M.
"Jesus Christ, stop plucking at me! I don't need this shit!" Jack gripped the 
Takisian's hands, and flung them away like a man flicking water. "Jesus."
Tach firmly quashed the irritation he felt rising like gorge in the back of his 
throat, but still said in slightly aggrieved tones, "I was concerned. You could 
have been killed."
The snap of a lighter as Jack lit a Camel. "Well, find another way to show it. 
By the way, you look like shit."
"Thank you so very much. I didn't sleep last night."
"Hey, ditto."
"Jack, what happened? It was all so garbled on the news reports. I'm standing 
there brushing my teeth when I see you plummeting into the piano." He cocked his 
head to one side, and considered. "Which is, I suppose, the only fortuitous 
thing to come out of this mess."
"Fortuitous, hell. I was aiming for that damn piano." Then in a few staccato 
sentences the ace outlined the rest of the evening; Sara's clumsy come-on, 
Jack's plan for taking the journalist out of the way, the arrival of the 
horrifying hunchback, the fight. Cognac-flavored vomit hit the back of Tachyon's 
throat, and he bolted for the bathroom.
"Now what?" Jack called.
Tach emerged wiping his mouth on a wet washcloth. "Sara, where is she now?"
"Hell, I don't know. She went out of that room like a missile, and I can't say I 
blame her. I haven't seen her since." Tachyon pressed his hands to his face. 
"Mothers of my mother forgive me. I didn't believe her."
"What?"
"She came to me Monday night. Tried to tell me she was in danger. I wouldn't 
listen." The import of what he had just said struck him, and Tach lurched back 
into the bathroom.
He was down to stomach juices. The acid burned on its way up. Like the acid 
eating away at his trust, his certainty. Hartmann is an ace.
Help me. You'll be sorry.
Arms embracing the toilet, the ceramic rim cool against his burning cheek Tach 
murmured, "Help me."
Jack lifted him to his feet and asked, "How? What is it you need? What the 
hell's going on? Why did you bring up a secret ace on Monday? Talk to me, 
Tachy."
"Not now, Jack. Not now. I must find Sara."

8:00 A.M.
Billy Ray knocked and poked his head through the open door. "Security says the 
stairs are clean, Senator. You two ready?"
"We're coming now," Gregg told him. He finished knotting his tie and adjusted it 
around his neck.
Puppetman prowled like a sleek cat just under the surface, waiting. Ellen came 
from the bedroom and gave Gregg a worried, concerned glance. Gregg smiled back 
reassuringly, hating the act. "I'm fine," he said. "Much better this morning 
since I talked with you. Back to normal." He put his arms around her and patted 
her belly. "After all, the kid might just have a president for a daddy, right?"
Ellen leaned against him. She hugged him wordlessly. "He still kicking this 
morning, darling?"
"He? And just what makes you so sure it's a boy?" Ellen teased him, hugging him 
again.
Gregg shrugged. Because my child's a goddamn dwarf joker who's supposed to be 
dead. Because I've heard him talking to me. "Just a hunch, love."
Ellen chuckled against his chest. "Well, he's been mostly quiet. I think he's 
asleep."
The breath went out of Gregg in a sigh. He closed his eyes momentarily. "Good," 
he said. "Good. Let's go, then. Amy and John are probably waiting." He waved to 
Billy.
The morning staff briefings were held in the campaign headquarters one floor 
below. Gregg had always taken the stairs down-while he could have commandeered 
an elevator, it hardly seemed worth it. Now he was glad for the routine. He knew 
exactly what he needed to do.
You're sure? You're sure this will end it? The power was vibrating with 
intensity. Puppetman's voice was insistent.
I don't know. If it doesn't, we'll find another way. I promise. Now that we 
know, we can plan. Just wait and be ready.
The stairwell was an ugly contrast to the halls: stained concrete landings 
connected by steep metal stairs. They nodded to Alex James, stationed there as 
usual. Echoes rebounded as Billy held the door open and let Ellen pass. Gregg 
caught the door and motioned to Billy to precede him. I don't want to do this. I 
don't, Gregg thought.
We don't have a choice. Puppetman. Eager.
He searched in his head for Gimli and found nothing. He let Puppetman loose.
As Ellen approached the stairs, the power lanced from Gregg in a rush, fearing 
that if he hesitated at all Gimli would stop him again. He invaded her long-open 
mind and found what he wanted.
It was all there, as he knew it would be: A faint, swirling vertigo as Ellen 
looked down the stairs; an uneasy feeling of imbalance from the unaccustomed 
forward weight of her stomach. Puppetman wrenched brutally at both responses, 
dampening everything else in her mind. When the inevitable quick panic followed, 
he amplified that as well.
It took less than a second. It was worse than he'd thought it would be.
Ellen tottered, screamed in fright. Her hand grasped far too late for the 
handrail.
Puppetman leaped for Billy Ray in that instant. He truncated the adrenaline 
surge as Billy saw Ellen lose her balance on that first step, slowing the ace's 
superb reflexes.
Gregg himself could have done nothing even if he'd wished, trapped behind Ray. 
Billy made a valiant leap for Ellen; his fingertips grazed her flailing arm and 
then closed on empty air. Ellen fell. It seemed to take a very long time.
Gregg pushed past the horrified Ray, whose hand was still futilely outstretched. 
Ellen lay crumpled against the wall on the next landing, her eyes closed and a 
deep gash streaming blood down one side of her head. As Gregg reached her, her 
eyes opened, clouded with pain. She tried to sit up as Gregg cradled her and Ray 
shouted for James to call an ambulance.
Ellen moaned, clutching suddenly at her stomach. There was bright blood between 
her legs. Her eyes widened. "Gregg," she breathed. "Oh, Gregg ..."
"I'm sorry, Ellen. My god, I'm sorry."
Then she began to cry with tremendous gasping sobs. He cried with her, mourning 
for the child that might have been, while another part of him celebrated.
For that instant, he hated Puppetman.

9:00 A.M.
The breakfast crowd was thinning out. The people who came here some black, some 
white, all working class-had to get to their jobs. Spector was a hell of a lot 
more comfortable eating here than at the Marriott. There were too many people he 
was tempted to kill there, and after last night's attack he was in a 
particularly foul mood. He'd been working his way through the morning newspaper, 
but so far hadn't seen anything about Tony getting sent to the hospital by a 
group of anti-joker thugs.
He'd let Shelly check Tony into the hospital. He didn't want to be around when 
the cops showed and started asking questions. No point in pushing his luck. 
Shelly had given him a strange look when he took off, but he knew she wouldn't 
talk. She was satisfied that he was on their side and that would be enough.
Spector finished the last of his hash browns and bacon.
The coffee was hot and they kept his cup filled, so he didn't feel like going 
anywhere just yet. He was beginning to lose his enthusiasm for this job, anyway. 
Maybe he should just pay Tony a visit and skip town.
He'd sort it out later. Right now he was going to relax and mind his own 
business.
The press were lined up six deep in the waiting room. Gregg caught a glimpse of 
them every time the doors opened: a wash of portable video lights, a flurry of 
electronic flashes, a babble of shouted questions. The news of Ellen's fall had 
spread rapidly. Before the ambulance had arrived at the hospital, they were 
waiting.
Billy Ray leaned against the wall, scowling. " I can have security move them if 
you want, Senator. They're like a flock of buzzards. Ghouls."
"It's okay, Billy. They're just doing their job. Don't worry about them."
"Senator, I was so close, I tell you." Billy clenched his hand in front of his 
face, his mouth twisted. "I should have got her. It's my damn fault."
"Billy, don't. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault." Gregg sat head in 
hands on a couch outside the surgical clinic. It was a careful pose: The 
Distraught Husband. Inside, Puppetman was exuberant. He rode Ellen's pain, 
relishing it. Even under the haze of the anesthetic, he could make her writhe 
inwardly. Her worry for the baby was a cold, primal dark blue; Puppetman made 
the emotion an achingly saturated sapphire, fading slowly into the orange-red of 
her injuries. But better-far, far better-was Gimli. The Gimli-thing that had 
fastened itself on his child was in torment, and there were no drugs to blunt 
that pain, nothing to stop Puppetman from doubling and redoubling it. Gregg 
could feel Gimli suffocating, choking, screaming inside Ellen's womb.
And Puppetman laughed. He laughed as the baby died because Gimli died with it. 
He laughed because at last the insanity was over.
The infant's slow, horrible death was tasty. It was good. Gregg felt it all 
numbly. He was being split in half.
The part of him that was Gregg hated this, was appalled and disgusted by 
Puppetman's exuberant response. That Gregg wanted to weep rather than laugh.
You shouldn't feel relief. It's your child dying, man, a part of you. You wanted 
it and you've lost it. And Ellen ... She loves you, even without Puppetman, and 
you betrayed her. How can you not be sad, you son of a bitch?
But Puppetman only scoffed. Gimli had it. It wasn't your child, not any longer. 
It's better that it dies. It's better that it nourishes us.
In his head, Gregg could hear Gimli sobbing. It was an eerie sound. Puppetman 
chuckled at the anguish and desolation in it.
Gimli's cry turned abruptly to a rising, hopeless shriek. As his voice rose in 
pitch, it began to fade, as if Gimli were falling away into a deep, dark pit.
Then there was nothing. Puppetman groaned orgasmically.
The door to the surgery swung open. A doctor in sweaty scrub greens emerged. She 
nodded to Gregg and Ray, grimacing. She walked slowly toward them as Gregg rose.
"I'm Dr. Levin," she said. "Your wife is resting now, Senator. That was a 
terrible fall for a woman in her condition. We've stopped the internal bleeding 
and stitched up the scalp wound, but she's going to be badly bruised. I'll want 
to x-ray her hip later; the pelvis isn't broken, but I want to make sure there's 
no fracture. We'll need to keep her a day or two at least for observation, but I 
think-eventually-she'll be fine."
Levin paused, and Gregg knew she was waiting for a question. The question. "And 
the baby?" Gregg asked.
The doctor tightened her lips. "We couldn't do anything for him-a boy, by the 
way. We were dealing with a prolapsed umbilical and the placenta had torn away 
from the uterus wall."
"The child was without oxygen for several minutes. With that and the other 
injuries ... " Another grimace. She rubbed at her hand; took a deep breath, and 
looked at him with sympathetic dark eyes. "It was probably better this way. I'm 
sorry."
Billy pounded the door with a fist, tearing a jagged splintery hole in the wood 
and gouging long scratches down his arm. Ray began cursing softly and 
continuously. Puppetman turned to feed on the guilt, but Gregg forced the power 
below the surface once more; for the first time in weeks, the power subsided 
docilely. Gregg faced the wall for a moment.
With Puppetman satisfied, the other part of him grieved.
He swallowed hard, choked it back. When he turned, the doctor wavered in a sheen 
of genuine tears.
"I'd like to see Ellen now," he said. His voice sounded wonderfully drained, 
superbly exhausted, and far too little of it was an act.
Dr. Levin gave him a wan smile of understanding. "Certainly, Senator. If you'll 
follow me--"

10:00 A.M.
The first thing Jack thought when he heard about Ellen was: Yes. The secret ace.
"Where's the senator now?"
"At the hospital."
"And where's Ray?"
"With him."
Maybe Ray could keep the freak away, then. Jack had other things to do.
Sara's tattered notes seemed like a cold weight in Jack's breast pocket. He 
looked around, saw campaign workers milling around the HQ, pointlessly and 
silently, like survivors of a disaster. Which, of course, they probably were.
The secret ace had gone after Hartmann first, Jack figured, because Hartmann had 
more delegate votes. That was the only way to explain all the things that had 
gone wrong, from the networks cutting to commercial breaks during Carter's 
seconding speech to the riot before the platform fight to Ellen's miscarriage.
The thought of which, on reflection, made Jack burn with anger. The secret ace 
was picking not just on a candidate, but on civilians the candidate was close 
to.
Sara Morgenstern, who knew the ace's identity, had disappeared. Jack, along with 
the Secret Service, had been trying to find her all night long.
Devaugbn was gone from HQ, and so was Amy. Jack went to the phone, ordered a 
thousand and one roses delivered to Ellen's room on his credit card, then he 
headed next door to the media center. He found an unused VCR, picked up some 
videocassettes of the other candidates as well as their campaign biographies, 
and took them to his room.
Maybe Gregg Hartmann's candidacy was finished. Jack couldn't tell, and couldn't 
change things one way or another.
He only knew one thing for certain. He was going to have to call Rodriguez and 
tell him to take charge of the delegation and vote his proxy for Hartmann on 
every ballot. Jack had other things to do. He was going hunting for the secret 
ace.
Even though a hotel is a fortress armored against the outside world, the outside 
gets in anyway, in subtle ways. Trying to flow through the crush of delegates 
and press toads,
Mackie could tell it was morning, from the light that managed to battle inside, 
from a taste of the Chilled Sliced Processed Air Product extruded by the AC. 
Maybe it was just that as a Hamburg harbor rat he had an instinctive dread of 
morning, and could smell it when it lurked outside.
His hands were jammed in pockets, his head jammed in memories. Sometimes, when 
he was young and had fucked up again, the fog of booze would lift enough to 
permit his mother to fix him with a stern, bleary look and say, Detlev, you 
disappoint me so, instead of just shrieking and hitting him with whatever came 
to hand. He hated that the most. The shrieking he could ignore, the blows he 
could weather by tucking his head painfully between uneven shoulders and turning 
away. But the disappointment went right through him, there was no defense 
against that.
Every particle of his life had been a disappointment to somebody. Except when 
his hands were steel, were knives. When the blood ran: no disappointment there, 
oh no, laughter inside: yeah.
Until the last two days. Two chances: two failures. All he had to show was an 
incidental nigger in a suit worth more than Mackie's entire body. He thought at 
least the big glowing gold weenie was meat when he crashed the rail last night, 
but then this morning he saw on the news that he crashed through a piano and 
wasn't hurt.
He was glad about the piano, anyway. Son of a bitch never played his song.
Ahead of him he saw a pair of dark well-filled suits crowding a man with a 
garment bag over his shoulder, back toward the wall, out of the clotted traffic 
flow. They were leaning into him in that way pigs have when they know they have 
your ass. Mackie snagged a shred of conversation:
"No, really, I was wearing my pass just a moment ago. In all this crush, 
somebody must have brushed against me, knocked it o$="
That made Mackie smile. He had no need of badges. No need to squirm in the grip, 
unreeling lies as obvious as a whore's smile to amuse the pigs and make them 
give each sideways smirks. He was still Mackie, MacHeath the Knife as big as 
legend. Not a bug like this nat crasher.
He phased and sideled softly, through the crowd and through the wall, toward his 
rendezvous with love and disappointment.
John Werthen had arranged for the makeshift press conference in the 
gymnasium/auditorium of the hospital. As Amy accompanied Gregg around the back 
of the small stage there, he felt a sudden distress pulse from her. "John, you 
ass," she whispered, then glanced at Gregg guiltily. The auditorium had been 
used for a Lamaze class the night before. Charts of the stages of labor, cervix 
dilation, and positions of the fetus were stacked in one corner. They almost 
seemed a mockery.
You had to do it, he reminded himself quickly. You didn't have a choice.
"I'm sorry, sir," Amy said. "I'll have someone get rid of them."
"I'm all right," he said. "Don't worry about it."
The tragic death of the Hartmann infant had become The Story of the convention. 
Wildfire rumors flared through the convention-Hartmann was pulling out; Hartmann 
had decided to take the VP spot behind Dukakis or Jackson or even Barnett; 
Hartmann had actually been the intended victim of Nur terrorists; a simultaneous 
attempt had been made on the lives of all the candidates; a joker was somehow 
involved in Ellen's fall; no, the baby had been a joker; Carnifex had pushed 
Ellen or he'd just watched her fall without moving; Barnett was calling it the 
hand of God; Barnett had called Hartmann and they had prayed together.
There was a morbid glee to it all. The circus atmosphere had been plunged into 
something halfway between horror and fascination.
The auditorium was almost unnaturally quiet. "Senator, if you're ready ... " Amy 
said. Her eyes were red and puffy; she'd been crying off and on since she'd 
arrived at the hospital.
Puppetman had made certain of it. She looked at Gregg and tears brimmed again. 
He hugged her silently as Puppetman lapped at the sorrow.
It was easy. It was all so easy with Puppetman.
Amy held the curtains open for him and he walked out into the familiar glare of 
lights. The floor was a solid mass of people: reporters in front; behind them, 
Hartmann supporters from the convention intermingled with jokers and hospital 
staff. Amy and John had argued for restricting admission strictly to the press, 
but Gregg had overruled them. A large contingent of jokers had besieged the 
hospital, and Gregg insisted that they be allowed to attend as well. Security 
blocked the doors after capacity was reached; behind the windows, Gregg could 
see that the corridors were also wallto-wall.
Let them in, Gregg had told Ray. The jokers are our people. We all know why 
they're concerned. If they're clean, give 'em passes until were out of room. I 
trust you, Billy. I know nothing will happen.
Ray had been almost pitifully grateful at that. That had tasted good, too.
Gregg walked slowly to the podium and bowed his head, gripping either side of 
the lectern. He took a deep breath and heard it echo against the hard tile 
walls. Puppetman could feel the sympathy beating against him. He reveled in it. 
Gregg could see the puppets interspersed with them: Peanut, File, Mothmouth, 
Glowbug, a dozen others just in the first few ranks. Gregg knew from long 
experience that a crowd was an easily swayed beast. Control enough of them and 
the rest would follow along.
This would be easy. This would be cake. He hated it.
Gregg raised his head, solemn. "I ... I really don't know what-" He stopped 
deliberately and closed his eyes. Hartmann Composing Himself. Out in the 
audience, he heard a subdued sob. He tugged gently at the dozens of mental 
strings and felt the puppets move. He let his voice tremble just slightly when 
he resumed.
"...don't know what to say to you all. The doctors have given you their report. 
Umm, I'd like to say Ellen is doing fine, but that's not really the truth. Let's 
just say that she is doing as well as can be expected at the moment. Her 
physical injuries will heal; the rest, well-" Again a pause; he ducked his head 
for a moment. "The rest is going to take a lot of time. I've heard that there's 
already a roomful of flowers and cards that some of you have sent, and she asked 
me to thank you. She'll need all the support and prayers and love you can give 
her."
He gestured at Amy. "I was going to let Ms.: Sorensonmy aide-read you my 
statement. I'd already drafted it, telling all of you that I was withdrawing my 
name from nomination due to ... to the unfortunate accident today. I even read 
it to Ellen. Afterward, she asked me to give the paper to her, and I did. This 
is what she gave me back."
They waited, obedient. Puppetman tightened his fingers around the strings.
Gregg reached into his pocket. His hand came out fisted; he turned his hand over 
and opened his fingers. Scraps of paper fluttered to the wooden floor.
"She told me that she'd already lost a son," he said quietly. "She said she 
wasn't about to lose the rest."
Puppetman pulled the strings tight, opening the minds of the puppets among them. 
The murmurs of the audience rose, peaked, broke. From the back of the gymnasium 
where the jokers watched, the applause began, swelling and moving through the 
audience until most of them were on their feet, clapping hands together, 
laughing and crying at the same time. The room was suddenly noisy and wild like 
a camp revival meeting, everyone swaying and shouting and weeping, grieving and 
celebrating at once. He could see Peanut, his lone arm waving back and forth, 
his mouth a black wound in the scaly, hard face as he jumped up and down. The 
excitement triggered Glowbug's joker: his pulsing radiance rivaled the 
electronic flashes.
The cameras swiveled about, panning the odd celebration. Reporters whispered 
urgently into microphones. Gregg stood there, posed, his empty hand out over the 
torn-up paper. He let his hand drop to his side and lifted his head as if 
hearing the acclimation for the first time. He shook his head in feigned 
bemusement.
Puppetman exulted. Gregg channeled a portion of the stolen response into 
himself. He gasped at the pure, undiluted strength of it. He raised his hands 
for quiet as Puppetman loosened the strings slightly-it took long seconds before 
he could be heard at all over them.
His voice was choked. "Thank you. Thank you all. I think mavbe Ellen deserves to 
be your nominee; she's worked as hard or harder at this, even when she was tired 
from the pregnancy or a little sick in the mornings. If the convention doesn't 
want me, maybe we'll place her name in nomination instead."
That brought more applause and outright cheering, sprinkled with sobbing 
laughter. All the while, Gregg gave them a wan, strained smile that had nothing 
of Puppetman in it. Part of him seemed to be simply, scornfully, observing.
"I just wanted all of you to know that we're still in this fight despite 
everything. I know Ellen is watching this from her room and she wants me to 
thank you for your sympathy and your continued support. Now, I'd like to get 
back to her myself. Ms. Sorenson will answer any other questions you might have. 
Once again, thank you all. Amy-"
Gregg raised his hands in salute; Puppetman yanked hard. They cheered him, tears 
streaming down their faces. He had it all back.
It was his, now. He knew it. Most of him rejoiced.

2:00 P.M.
The sound of a soap filtered through the cardboard and cottage-cheese stucco 
walls of the cheap motel room. On the screen of the room television a pretty 
young joker woman with bright-blue skin was trying to guess the password from 
Henry Winkler's clues. Wrapped in a cheap, stiff housecoat her mysterious 
benefactor had bought on sale at Kmart, Sara sat on the end of the bed and 
stared at the screen as if the images on it mattered.
She was still trying to pull together the broken glass pieces the news flash had 
left in her belly. The wife of Senator Gregg Hartmann has miscarried in the wake 
of her tragic fall... The senator was bravely containing his grief as he fought 
for political survival on the convention floor. Just the sort of persevering 
spirit America needed to carry her into the nineties, or so the commentator's 
tone seemed to say. Or had that just been the blood in Sara's ears.
Bastard. Monster. He sacrificed his wife, his unborn child, to save his 
political hide.
An image of Ellen Hartmann's face surfaced through the shrouds she laid over her 
memories of the W.H.O. tour. A wan, brave smile, knowing, forbearing 
...infinitely tragic.
Now she lay broken and near death, the child she had so desired lost.
Sara was never the strident kind of feminist who saw every human interaction in 
terms of grand collectives, political synecdoche wherein a man was Men and a 
woman, Women.
Yet this struck her deeply, offended her on some primal level. Angered her: for 
herself, for Ellen, for all of Hartmann's victims, yes, but especially the 
women.
For Andrea.
There was a thing the man who had hurried her from the hotel last night as the 
police cars wailed their red-and-blue way to the latest battle scene, had 
suggested when they talked in the early hours of this morning. She had promised 
to consider it before he left about whatever errands he had to tend to-not even 
reporter's curiosity made her really want to know. Because his suggestion was 
natural enough, she supposed, for a self-confessed Soviet spymaster. But it 
shocked a Midwestern girl, transplanted into the neurasthenic garden of the New 
York intellectual set, even one who prided herself on her case-hardening in the 
streets and back rooms of Jokertown.
But still, but still... . Gregg Hartmann had to be stopped. Gregg Hartmann had 
to pay.
But Sara Morgenstern didn't want to die. To follow Andi oh-so-ungently into that 
night she could not believe was good. That was the covert caveat of George 
Steele's suggestion, neither hidden nor overtly stated.
But what, what chance do I have with that--thing--after me? The laughing, 
twisted leather boy, who humme to himself and walked through walls. She could 
not hide forever. And when he found her. .
She shook her head, whipstinging her cheeks with the ends of her hair, blinded 
by hot sudden tears.
Onscreen the blue woman cleaned up in the End Game. Sara hoped it made her 
happy.

3:00 P.M.
"Stop it." The steady angry flipping of the magazine's pages ceased.
"Why?" Blaise's tone was challenging.
Tach reined in his temper. Poured another brandy. " I am trying to think, and it 
is irritating me."
"You always stop using contractions when you're pissed."
"Blaise, please."
Propping the phone beneath his chin, Tach called Sara's room. The distant 
ringing echoed mournfully over and over again.
Tach drummed his fingers on the table, touched the disconnect button and phoned 
the desk. Blaise's magazine flew across the room like a terrified bird. "This is 
boring sitting here watching you be stupid! I want to go out."
"You have forfeited that right."
"I don't want to be here when the CIA comes to get you." The boy's grin was 
ugly.
"Goddamn you."
Fist upraised, Tachyon charged across the room. The knock at the door arrested 
him before he could strike the child. Hiram and Jay Ackroyd were in the hall. 
Hiram looked like death. Ackroyd's face was puffy and swollen, and a lot of 
colors that a face shouldn't be. Tachyon's stomach formed into a small, tight 
ball, and tried to retreat into his spinal cord. He stepped reluctantly back to 
let them enter.
Hiram waddled to the window. For the first time in all the years he had known 
him, Tachyon realized that the ace was not using his gravity power to reduce his 
own weight.
Worchester's footfalls were ponderous in the suite. Ackroyd seated himself on 
the sofa, and laid a garment bag across his knees. The silence stretched like 
cobwebs between the three men and the boy.
Ackroyd jerked his head toward the door. "Lose the kid."
"Hey!" Blaise burst out.
"Blaise, go."
He gave his grandfather a smirk. " I thought I'd forfeited the right."
"GO, damn you!"
"Shit, just when things were getting interesting." Blaise held up his hands, 
palms out. "Hey, no problem. I'm gone."
The door closed behind him, and the silence resumed. Nerves fraying, Tachyon 
flung out a hand. "Hiram, what the devil is this?" There was no reply from the 
ace.
Ackroyd said, "You gotta run a blood test, Doc. Right now."
Tachyon smirked and indicated the room. "What? Here?" The detective grimaced. 
"Don't be dense, and don't be cute. I'm too fucking tired and I hurt too much to 
deal with it." The man's fingers trembled slightly as he unzipped the bag. "This 
is Senator Hartmann's jacket from Syria."
Tachyon stared in blind terror at the black stain on the cloth.
This was it. He could no longer postpone the discovery by reason of convoluted 
Takisian honor. Sara's accusations would be proved or disproved in old blood.
"How did you come to possess this?"
"That's a long story," Ackroyd said wearily, "and none of us have the time. 
Let's just say I got it.. from Chrysalis."
"It was...well...sort of a legacy."
Tachyon cleared an obstruction from his throat, and asked cautiously, "And just 
what do you think I am going to find?"
"The presence of Xenovirus Takis-A."
Moving like an automaton, Tachyon crossed to the dresser, poured a drink, threw 
it back. " I see a jacket. Anyone could buy a jacket, doctor it with virus 
positive blood-"
"That's what I thought." Hiram's voice was a 'rusty grinding sound. "But he's," 
a jerk of the head toward Ackroyd, "been through too much. The link from Syria 
to this hotel room is clear. It's the sen-it's Hartmann's jacket."
Tachyon pivoted slowly to face Worchester. "Do you want me to do this thing?"
"Do we have any choice?"
"No. I don't suppose we have."
All the way to the Marriott, Puppetman nudged at the gnawing guilt inside Billy 
Ray. It was a delicious snack, soured and spiced with frustration. Gregg could 
feel Ray reliving the moment of Ellen's fall again and again, and he knew that 
every time Billy felt his fingers graze Ellen's hand. Ray sat in the front seat 
of the limo and watched the traffic far too carefully, blinking too often behind 
his mirrored sunglasses. Gregg could feel Carnifex aching to strike out at 
something, someone.
So Simple, Puppetman chortled. He'd do anything if he thought it might make up 
for his mistake.
Remember that, Gregg told him. Tonight, maybe.
Now that it was over, Gregg was beginning to feel more normal. The numbness and 
feeling of being split in half was receding. Part of him still hated what he'd 
done, but after all what choice had he had?
None. None at all.
There was nothing else we could do, right? Absolutely. Nothing else.
Puppetman was smug.
When Billy opened the door of the campaign staff room for Gregg, a cardboard 
Peregrine floated out. Someone had whited-out her costume and penned in pubic 
hair and enormous nipples on the bare breasts. "Flying Fuck" was stenciled on 
the side.
The place was a happy chaos. Gregg could see Jack Braun in one of the bedrooms 
with Charles Devaughn and Logan. Half the Ohio delegation seemed to be in the 
living room of the suite, dipping into the booze stashed behind the wet bar and 
waiting for their own meeting with Devaughn. Junior staffers were riding the 
phone lines while volunteers bustled in and out. Room service trays littered the 
floor near the door, the carpet was sticky with spilled soda. The place smelled 
like a week-old pizza.
Gregg watched the mood shift as soon as he entered. Puppetman felt the 
hysterical jubilation darken as the noise level dropped to nothing. Everyone 
turned to look at Gregg.
Devaughn broke away from Jack and Logan. His well-groomed figure cut a wedge 
through the crowded room. "Senator," he purred. "We're all very sorry. How's 
Ellen?",
Puppetman could feel very little actual sorrow or concern inside his campaign 
manager-Devaughn felt nothing unless it directly impacted him, and then 
everything was a crisis-but Gregg nodded. "She's doing a good job of pretending 
that she's a lot better than she is. This has been a blow to all of us, but 
especially to her. I'm not going to stay here too long, Charles. I need to get 
back to the hospital soon. I just wanted to touch bases. I know I haven't been 
much help to you people ..."
"You're mistaken there, Senator. That press conference at the hospital-" 
Devaughn shook his head. The yuppie-cut hair stayed perfectly in place. "John's 
meeting with Florida, Georgia, and Mississippi right now; it looks like we might 
be able to swing a lot of the Southern Gore delegates away from Barnett."
They're heavily into the strength of the family unit and that type of thing; 
we've got a lot of sympathy pull to use there." Devaughn didn't even notice the 
callousness of the remark, though aides around them audibly gasped. "Christ, man 
...one of them exclaimed.
Devaughn simply plowed on. "I've been talking with Jack and the West looks 
solid, too." Devaughn couldn't keep the grin from his face. "We've got it, 
Senator," he said eagerly. "We're within 150-200 votes of the majority, and the 
swing our way is getting deeper. Two more ballots, three at the most. Barnett's 
drifting and going nowhere, and we're picking up everyone's defectors. It's all 
over but the VP decision. You'd better start making your final decision on 
that."
Some of the workers around them gave a cheer at the declaration. Gregg allowed 
himself a small half-smile. Jack had followed Devaughn over and was standing 
beside him. He grimaced at the display and Puppetman felt a faint spill of 
distaste.
"I'm sorry, Gregg," he said, giving Devaughn a hard glare. "Really. No one would 
have blamed you for dropping out. I think I would have given it up in the same 
situation. I know there's nothing anyone can say to make it hurt less."
"Thanks, Jack." Gregg clasped the ace on the shoulder. He heaved a great sigh 
and shrugged self-conciously. "Whether you believe it or not, hearing that does 
mean something. Listen, you're one of the main reasons I dropped back here. 
Ellen's asking to see both you and Tachyon. I think she wants to make certain 
I've got good people around me for protection."
Gregg felt a twinge from Billy Ray at that: more guilt. Just for the pleasure it 
would give Puppetman and because for the first time in weeks he could do such 
things without worry, he tweaked the guilt and let Puppetman savor it. Ray's 
intake of breath was audible.
"Tachy's over at the Omni, I think," Jack said.
"Then could I ask a favor? Would you find him and drag him back to the Marriott? 
We'll go over together, if it's all right with you two."
It had been easy enough to arrange. Ellen was a long-time puppet and extremely 
pliable. It would add to the favorable press the accident had given him. He 
could see the photo now:
Senator Hartmann, Golden Boy, and Dr. Tachyon at Mrs.
Hartmann's bedside. From the slight twist to Braun's mouth, it was obvious the 
ace had come to much the same conclusion, but he shrugged.
"I guess. Let me go see if I can round up Tachy."
"Good," Gregg said. "I'll wait for you in my room."

4:00 P.M.
Jack hadn't found Tachyon at the Omni, and decided to go on to the hospital 
without him. Jack didn't have the heart to tell the candidate that Tachyon was 
probably back at the Marriott screwing Fleur van Renssaeler.
Hartmann stared silently at the back of Billy Ray's head as the limousine inched 
its way through bumper-to-bumper traffic on its way to the hospital.
Jack thought about the secret ace. If the fragment of Sara's photocopy clue was 
anything to go by, the unknown ace had to be a veteran who had somehow got his 
blood test suppressed.
This left out Jesse Jackson, who, being a seminary student, had a draft 
deferment. The other candidates were all veterans, but the way Jack figured, the 
most likely suspect was Leo Barnett.
Barnett was a populist charismatic preacher who claimed to interpret the word of 
God, whose flock had mostly voted for Reagan in the last two elections, but who 
had followed him blindly into Democratic ranks. He preached against the wild 
card and wild card violence, but he didn't have the votes to take the nomination 
unless so much chaos broke out at the convention that a backlash gave him the 
nomination:
Maybe Barnett had been off in his tower praying for disasters to befall Gregg 
Hartmann. Maybe the angels had obliged him.
Or maybe it hadn't been the angels who had obliged. There was another possible 
clue in Sara's "secret ace" paper, the doodles that included a row of crosses. 
Maybe Sara made those crosses when thinking about the Reverend Leo Barnett.
Jack held off making a judgment until he saw the videotapes. Dukakis impressed 
him as hardworking, intelligent, and fairly dull. Hardly the sort to employ 
twisted aces to chop up his enemies. But Barnett was riveting.
In the videos, he prowled the stage like a wary panther, wiping away buckets of 
sweat with a succession of huge handkerchiefs, his voice ranging from a mild, 
just-folks West Virginia twang to a lacerating, scornful jeremiad shriek. And he 
was clearly no brainless ranting Holy Roller. His ice-blue eyes burned with 
fearsome intelligence. His messages were so well-constructed, so 
well-reasoned-at least within their apocalyptic framework-that his 
communications skills had to be the envy of any of the other candidates' 
speechwriters.
And Barnett was-Jack hated to admit this-sexy. He was still under forty, and his 
blond Redford good looks and dimpled chin obviously had his female audience in 
thrall.
There was one incredibly revealing scene, Barnett straddling a prostrate young 
semi-deb who had been possessed by the Spirit, Barnett shouting into his phallic 
microphone while the girl babbled in tongues, and writhed and grunted in what to 
Jack's jaded Hollywood mind seemed clearly to be a series of staggering sexual 
climaxes... . And Jack, looking into the preacher's intent face and ferocious 
predator eyes, knew that Barnett knew he was bringing the girl off just with the 
power of his presence and voice, and that Barnett rejoiced in the twisted sexual 
glory of it all... .
Jack remembered a night in 1948, sitting after a Broadway debut in a Sixth 
Avenue coffee shop with David Harstein, the member of the Four Aces whose 
pheromone power hadn't, at that point, been revealed to the public. Unknown to 
them, a meeting of the Communist Party USA was being held down the street. The 
meeting ended and several of the party members showed up in the coffee shop and 
recognized Jack and Harstein. What started out as autograph-seeking turned into 
a combative political debate, as the comrades, fired-up from their meeting, 
demanded ideological concurrence from the two celebrities. Hunting Nazis and 
overthrowing Juan Peron was all very well, but when were the Four Aces going to 
proclaim solidarity with the workers? What about assisting anti-Dutch forces in 
Java and Mao's army in China? Why hadn't the Aces fought alongside the ELAS in 
Greece? What about assisting the Russians in purging Eastern Europe of unsound 
elements?
All the downside of celebrity, in short.
Jack had been all for saying goodnight and moving on, but Harstein had a better 
idea. His pheromones had already flooded the small coffee shop, making everyone 
amenable to his suggestions. Shortly thereafter the comrades, including several 
hulking dock workers and a couple horn-rimmed intellectuals, were standing on 
the counter doing Andrews Sisters impersonations. The late-night crowd was 
entertained with "Rum and Coca-Cola,"
"Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy," and "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree."
Jack thought about how easily Harstein had controlled the hostile crowd as he 
watched the last Barnett video, the one shot in Jokertown. Barnett moved amid 
the devastated landscape of a gang battle in New York, calling down the powers 
of heaven to heal Quasiman, who rose from the dead ... and seeing that, Jack 
knew in his bones the identity of the secret ace.
Barnett could make things happen. How the talent worked, Jack couldn't say. 
Barnett had to be able to affect things at a distance: make TV producers cut to 
commercial when he needed it, compel candidates like Hart and Biden to 
self-destruct, make his followers love him and give him money, maybe erase the 
wild card from his own military record, erase Tachyon's impotence and give him a 
letch for Fleur, maybe even give long-distance orgasms to the faithful. The 
twisted leather boy with the buzz saw hands could be someone Barnett had 
promised to heal of the curse of his wild card, provided he did the Lord's 
bidding first.
Jesus, Jack wondered. Had anyone really looked at these videos? Had anyone at 
all been able to tell how important they were? They were like a flaming Biblical 
hand in the sky, its index finger pointing at Leo Barnett.
Barnett. The secret ace had to be Barnett.
And now Jack gnawed his lower lip and looked at Hartmann, wondering whether or 
not to tell him. Hartmann was still staring with a peculiar intensity at Billy 
Ray, who sat riding shotgun in front of him. Was he blaming Ray for what 
happened to Ellen? Jack wondered. Ray, from what others had told Jack, was 
certainly blaming himself.
Jack started to say something to Hartmann, then choked the words down. Somehow 
he couldn't interrupt Hartmann's thoughts, not after the events of the day.
He'd talk to Tach about it first, he thought. Show Tachyon the clues, the 
videos. Between the two of them, they'd be able to figure out a response.
All this long-distance mind-control stuff was more in Tachyon's bailiwick, 
anyway.

5:00 P.M.
Spector sat in the hospital reception area and paged through a copy of Reader's 
Digest. The couch was made of hard, red vinyl and had been repaired with silver 
duct tape. A dying fluorescent light flickered and buzzed overhead. The hospital 
stank. Not just the usual smell of antiseptic and disease, but jokers. The 
deformed had a stink all their own. But it was probably the only place in town 
that had bed space for them.
A young, rail-thin nurse with tired eyes walked over. "You can see him now. Room 
205." She walked away without looking up from her clipboard.
Spector stood, stretched, and walked down the scuffed linoleum hallway. He'd 
decided not to fill the contract. There was no way in the world he was going to 
help Barnett and his shithead followers into the White House. He'd keep the 
money, of course. It'd stake him to a new start somewhere else. He'd go back to 
Teaneck first and get his things together, then take off. Maybe just spin a 
globe and go wherever his finger landed, like in the movies. There were bound to 
be plenty of places where his talents would be marketable. If his current 
employer wanted to try to track him down, they were welcome to give it their 
best shot. He wasn't really worried about it. But first he wanted to check on 
Tony and make sure he was going to be okay. After that, he was bouncing back to 
Jersey on the next plane.
He rapped the door to 205 open and poked his head in. Tony opened his eyes and 
smiled. It wasn't the same with so many broken teeth. "Come on in."
Spector sat down in a chair next to the window. Tony had gauze over one eye and 
an ugly mouse under the other. They'd taken stitches along his cheekbone and in 
his forehead. His lips were puffy and discolored.
"Want me to spring you?"
"Maybe tomorrow. The doctors said I had a couple of seizures secondary to the 
concussion. Nothing serious, but that's why they won't be transferring me out 
until this evening."
"I'll be staying at the same hospital as ..." He closed his eyes. Spector 
nodded. "Hurt to talk?"
"Hurts to blink, even. You okay?" Tony lifted himself up. "Those guys take it 
easy on you, or something?"
"I'm fine. They always want to mess you pretty boys up. Figure us ugly guys got 
enough trouble already." Spector shook his head. "You're going to make some 
dentist very happy. He's going to look at your mouth and see a new home 
entertainment system."
Tony was quiet for a moment. "You heard about Ellen?"
"Yeah." The news about Mrs. Hartmann's miscarriage had been the day's top news 
story. "A shitty break. Sorry."
"From a personal standpoint, I am, too. But this is going to put the man over 
the top at the convention." Tony reached up and scratched his nose, then winced. 
"I guess that sounds kind of cold. But it's going to help so many people that I 
think the trade off is worth it."
Spector glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. "I've got to get 
going, Tony. Things to do. I may not get a chance to see you again for a while, 
but I can always look you up on Pennsylvania Avenue."
"Can you do me a favor before you leave?"
"Sure, name it."
"All my writing stuff is at the Marriott. I know we're getting the nomination 
tonight and I have to finish off the acceptance speech. There's a black 
briefcase on my bed. It's got everything I'll need, my laptop, CD player." Tony 
edged his shoulders up the bed, sitting up as straight as possible. "With 
Ellen's accident and the story about some assassin hanging around, there's 
nobody else to get it for me. I kind of got lost in the shuffle."
"Uh, I don't think they're just going to let me waltz up to your room to pick up 
your shit." Spector felt bad about crawfishing, but really didn't want to go 
back to the Marriott. He might see Barnett and have to kill the bastard.
"No problem. I'll write you out a note. Show it to the security people at the 
entrance and they'll take care of it. I can call the nurse at the front desk 
here, have her give you my room key."
Spector couldn't say no, much as he wanted to. "Okay. It may take awhile. 
Traffic is a bitch out there."
Tony smiled. Even with split, purple lips, the guy still came across like a 
winner. He took Spector's hand and shook it. "The team's still working."
"Right," Spector said, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. "I couldn't let 
you go outside looking like that. You'd need a mask to cover up all those 
stitches."
Tony grabbed him by the elbow. "That's it, Jim. Masks. That's the angle I'll 
work with. Something that really showcases joker's Rights." He let go of Spector 
and raised his hands.
"America, wear a mask for one day. See what it's like to be treated as something 
less than human."
Spector stood quietly for a moment. "I think it needs a little work. "
"No problem. Now that I've got the angle, the words will come." Tony began 
writing.
"I'll get your stuff back as soon as I can." Spector didn't shake his head until 
he was out of the room.

6:00 P.M.
Projected on the screen of the electron microscope, the wild card lay in its 
distinctive crystal pattern.
"Jesus," breathed Ackroyd. "It's beautiful."
Tachyon scraped back his bangs. "Yes, I suppose it is." He grimaced. "Trust us 
Takisians to create a virus to match our aesthetic ideal."
He swung around on the lab stool just as Hiram began to slide down the wall.
"Ackroyd!"
They each grabbed an arm, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. All three 
ended up seated on the floor. Hiram ran a hand across his eyes and muttered, 
"Sorry, must have blacked out for an instant."
Unlimbering his flask, Tach held it to Hiram's lips. Worchester gulped down 
brandy, then his head fell to the side as if his neck were too fragile to 
support its weight. An enormous, ugly scab crusted on his neck. Tach touched it 
with a cautious forefinger, and Hiram straightened abruptly. "Hey, can I have a 
sip of that?" Jay pointed with his chin to the flask. "It's been a hell of a 
week." The detective's Adam's apple worked as he gulped down the brandy. Ackroyd 
gusted a sigh, and wiped his mouth.
"There can be no doubt?" Hiram's eyes pleaded with Tachyon.
"None."
"But just because he's an ace ... well, that proves nothing. He'd have been mad 
to admit to the virus. He might be a latent."
An uneasy silence fell over the three men. Tachyon, squatting on his heels, 
gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Three floors above him Ellen Hartmann 
rested in her hospital room. Dreaming of her lost child. Never dreaming that her 
husband was a secret ace, and possibly a ruthless killer. Or had she known all 
along?
Jay cleared his throat and asked, "So what do we do now?"
"A very good question," sighed Tachyon.
"You mean you don't know?"
"Contrary to popular belief I do not have the solution to every problem."
"We've got to have more proof than this," said Hiram, pushing to his feet.
Ackroyd jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the screen of the microscope. 
"What more proof do you want?"
"We don't know if he's done anything wrong!"
"He had Chrysalis killed!"
The two men were nose to nose, breathing in sharp angry pants.
"I demand evidence of wrong doing." Hiram pounded his fist into his palm.
"That's evidence," Ackroyd howled, pointing again to the screen.
Tachyon shouted, "Stop it! Stop it!", Hiram's hands closed on Tachyon's 
shoulders. "You go to him. Talk to him. There may be some logical explanation. 
Think of all the good he's done-"
"Oh, yeah." Sarcasm lay like acid on the words. Ackroyd took another long pull 
at the flask.
"Think of what we stand to lose," Hiram cried.
"So he'll just lie to Tachyon. Where the hell does that get us?"
"He cannot lie to me." Hiram's hands dropped from his shoulders, and the big ace 
fell back a step. Tach drew himself up to his full, if inconsequential, height. 
Dignity and command wrapped like a cloak about him. "If I go to him, you know 
what I will do." Hiram's eyes were filled with dumb misery, but he nodded 
slowly. "Will you accept the truth of what I read in his mind?"
"Yes."
"Even though it is inadmissible in a court of law?"
"Yes. "
The alien whirled on Jay. "As for you, Mr. Ackroyd, take the jacket. Destroy 
it."
"Hey, that's our only proof!"
"Proof? Are you really suggesting that we publicize this? Think ... what we hold 
could spell the ruin of every wild card in America."
"But he killed Chrysalis, and if we don't nail him Elmo takes the fall."
Tachyon dragged his fingers through his hair, nails digging deep into his scalp. 
"Damn you, damn you, damn you." "Look, it's not my fault. But I'm damned if I'm 
going to agree to some sleazy little deal that lets Chrysalis's murderer walk."
"I swear to you upon my honor and blood that I will not let Elmo suffer."
"Yeah? What are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet!" Tachyon turned off the microscope with a vicious jab, 
carried the slide to the basin and washed the blood-stained fibers down the 
drain.
Hiram fell into step next to him as the alien headed for the door. Tach laid a 
hand on his chest.
"No, Hiram. I must do this alone."
"And if he's got Buzz Saw Boy, waiting for you?" asked Jay. "That is the risk I 
must take."

7:00 P.M.
Spector thumbed the plastic SPECIAL VISITORS badge on his lapel and laughed 
quietly to himself. Earlier in the week, he would have killed until he was waist 
deep in bodies to get one of these. Now, he didn't need it anymore. Life was 
fucking like that.
Hartmann's floor was surprisingly quiet. He'd expected wall-to-wall aides and 
Secret Service. Spector pulled out Tony's room key and counted off the room 
numbers in his head. He figured it was time to get out of the country. 
Australia, maybe, or some other place where they spoke something that resembled 
English. He stopped in front of Tony's door and inserted the key. As he pushed 
in, he felt someone pulling it open from the other side.
Spector took a step back. A joker wearing Secret Service gear looked at his 
visitor's badge and motioned him in. The joker was tall and wiry, and gave 
Spector the once over when he stepped inside. His scaly, prominent brow ridge 
and some ugly lumps on his forehead were the only visible signs of his 
jokerhood. Spector figured there were more, but he wasn't interested enough to 
ask.
"Who are you?" the joker asked in a perfunctory manner. "I'm a friend of Tony 
Calderone. He sent me over to pick up his writing materials." Spector pointed to 
a black briefcase on the bed. "I think that's it."
"I see. Would you put your hands on your head, sir?" Spector did as he was told 
and the joker frisked him quickly, but thoroughly. Spector tensed. If this guy 
looked at him too long, he might get recognized. He was sure the feds had a file 
on him with Demise in big letters at the top. "This is news to me, so I'm going 
to check with Calderone." The joker moved to the phone, flipped through a 
notebook to find the number, and punched it in. He was careful not to turn his 
back, but showed no sign of placing Spector's face. "Tony Calderone, please." 
Short pause. "Tony. This is Colin. There's a guy here who says he's picking up 
your writing equipment. You did. Describe him for me. Okay. Yeah. I'm sorry, we 
just forgot." Colin hung up. "You Jim?"
"Yeah. Are you done with me?"
The joker raised a hand to signal silence and put a finger to his earpiece. 
"Yeah, I'm still in Calderone's room. There's a guy here who's going to deliver 
his writing kit to the hospital."
"Why didn't someone remind me I'd forgotten?" Long pause. "No, the hotel people 
say no one stayed in Baird's room again last night. Okay, I'll check it again 
later, but I think we're wasting our time. Talk to you later." The joker sighed 
and headed for the door. "Let yourself out," he said to Spector. "Don't forget 
to tell Tony I'm sorry."
Spector nodded stiffly and didn't breathe until the door closed. They knew about 
Baird. Not that it mattered now, with him leaving town. Still, the sooner he got 
the fuck out of here, the happier he'd be. He sat on the bed and flipped open 
the briefcase. Little computer and compact disc player, plenty of other crap, 
just like Tony'd said. He snapped it shut and headed to the bathroom for a drink 
of water. The city was baking again today, with no relief in sight. He set the 
briefcase down next to the toilet and was reaching for the tap when he heard the 
voices.
Whoever they were, neither one of them sounded very happy. Spector put his ear 
to the wall. His stomach turned over when he figured out who was arguing. 
Tachyon. He'd recognize that fucker's prissy little voice anywhere. And he was 
chewing on Hartmann. Spector sat down on the toilet and hoped no one came into 
the room while he was listening in.
The dizzying drop to the Marriott lobby lay before him. Tach noticed in a 
detached and clinical sort of way that his hands were gripping the balustrade so 
tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
Just climb out there. Past the safety wires. Let go. A long fall into peace. A 
chance to finally rest. To not be responsible. Tears burned his already aching 
eyes, but the despair passed quickly. He was a prince of the house Ilkazam, and 
his line did not breed cowards.
Squaring his shoulders he faced the door of Hartmann's suite. Perhaps as Hiram 
believes there is some logical explanation.
But Digger Jay claimed witnessed Hartmann watching with pleasure as a hunchback 
ace with hands like buzz saws eviscerated Kahina in the office of the Crystal 
Palace.
And last night that same hunchback had attempted to kill Sara and Jack.
He killed Andi, he killed Chrysalis, and now he's going to kill me ... me .. me 
... ME.
The rap of his knuckles on the door sounded loud in the hall. From below the 
sound of merrymaking drifted upward. Gregg was going over the top, top, top!
And I'm out of time, time, time.
Carnifex opened the door. He seemed shrunken somehow. Misery lurked in his green 
eyes.
"I need to see the senator, Billy."
The ace indicated with his free hand. Tachyon entered the suite. Gregg was 
seated in a chair by the window rolling a drink between his palms.
"Celebrating?"
The senator glanced up in surprise. "Well, not just yet, but soon I expect. 
Where have you been? I sent Jack to look for you. I wanted you to visit Ellen 
with me."
Tachyon stared at that smooth face. The laugh lines about the eyes. The 
sensitive mouth that had tightened in anger as the senator had been confronted 
with barbarism in Syria and South Africa. Tachyon's power quivered like a live 
thing, but he held it in check, terrified to penetrate the mind behind that 
familiar, friendly face.
Tachyon stirred slightly. His continued silence seemed to be angering Hartmann.
"What the hell is wrong with you? I'm about to get the nomination."
"Send Ray away."
"What?"
"Send him away."
Hartmann rolled expressive eyes toward the ace. Clearly a humor him expression. 
The agent nodded and left.
"Now Tachy, what's this all about? Drink?" He hefted the bottle.
"You are an ace."
Gregg barked out a laugh. "Really, Doctor, you've been working too hard-"
"I tested the blood on the jacket you wore in Syria." For a brief instant the 
man went rigid. But the face he presented to Tachyon was bland.
"I deny it. Categorically."
"It is written in your blood."
"The wrong jacket. The wrong blood. A plot by my enemies."
"The wrong blood." Tachyon rolled the words about his mouth, tasting them. "Yes, 
you did deal in the wrong blood when you had Chrysalis killed."
"I had nothing to do with Chrysalis's death."
"You left too many loose ends, Senator. Digger, Sara. It's unraveling, all of 
it."
"No one will ever believe them. Or you."
"I have the blood test."
"And you'll never publish it." Hartmann grinned, reading the answer in Tachyon's 
face. "Even assuming it were true, which it's not." He refilled his glass, and 
lounged back on the sofa exuding confidence.
"A touch of my power, and you'll lie naked before me," warned Tachyon. "I can 
see you. Read the truth of what you are."
Naked panic twisted the politician's face. He leaped up from the sofa, bourbon 
darkening the carpet as the glass fell from his hand. "This is insane, you've 
lost your mind. Ray. RAY!"
Tachyon hit him. Hard. Two swift body blows to Hartmann's gut. Anger gripped the 
alien like a physical force. He was trembling with rage and betrayal. Gregg 
tottered backward, clutching his stomach, mouth working as he gasped for breath.
Tachyon's power lanced out, gripped the human, brought him upright. He could see 
the terror in the human's eyes as he stood helpless in the grip of the 
Takisian's mental imperative.
He stepped into a place of putrescence. Slitted eyes burning with rage and 
hatred regarded him. A thing beyond all imaginings. Puppetman. It howled and 
fought, twisting as Tachyon, with the precision of a surgeon, laid back the 
years like flaps of rotting skin. Read a tale of death and pain and terror.
The frenzied greedy feeding as the baby and Gimli fell away into darkness. 
Sucking at Ellen's pain and fear. Rising lust as a joker, freed of all 
restraint, fell upon a woman and brutally raped her. A blood feast in Berlin as 
the maddened and unpredictable puppet Mackie Messer shredded his former 
companions. Not-wet and salty. Mackie's emotions as he had sucked on Gregg's 
cock. Bribing and then murdering the technician who had blood tested him. The 
crunch of bone as Roger Pellman slammed a rock into Andrea Whitman's face. 
Tasty. Tasty. An orgasmic sensation. Bloated and distended the thing fed upon 
the helpless, the lonely, the afraid.
So strong were the emotions and memories that Tachyon felt an answering heat in 
his own groin even while his stomach heaved with disgust. He screamed in fury 
that this thing, this monster could draw upon his own darkest nature.
Puppetman laughed, a swirling, nauseous mass of violet and red. Tachyon formed 
himself into a silver and crystal blade. Flew at the monster. Beat it back into 
its den. Threw up bars of flame. It was the most terrifying and powerful 
construct the Takisian had ever encountered.
Withdrawing into his own body Tachyon became aware of the stench of his own 
sweat, the violent trembling that shook his body. Hartmann sprawled on the sofa.
"You will never be president. Never!"
Gregg rose slowly, the action filled with menace. Loomed over the tiny alien. 
"You can't stop me. How can you stop me ... us, little man?"
The Takisian retort rose without thought, but Tachyon suppressed it before it 
could pass his teeth, Kill you. No, the last thing he could do. Sudden death 
would lead to autopsy, and autopsy to ... ruin.
Spinning on his heel he left the room.
Spector pushed his fist against the wall until he could hear his knuckles begin 
to crack. He gripped the knob to the adjoining door and tried to turn it. No 
luck. He took a deep breath, picked up the briefcase, and walked back into the 
bedroom. He set the briefcase down on the bed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Hartmann was playing them all for suckers. Tony had gotten the shit kicked out 
of him for nothing. The jokers in the park were supporting a fraud. The fucker 
was an ace, and a crazy one at that. He was a damned kingpin, just like the 
Astronomer, manipulating people into doing his dirty work while keeping his own 
hands clean. Spector gritted his teeth. He'd fallen for Hartmann's line, too. 
And he didn't like getting caught with his pants down. Rage boiled the pain up 
inside him. He had to do something, what he'd been hired to do in the first 
place.
Tachyon would probably be useless. He was so choked on his own fucking sense of 
self-importance that he'd figure withdrawing his support was enough. What a 
pathetic, little jerk. Treating the symptom instead of the disease, as usual, 
and leaving someone else to do the really hard work. Spector was too pissed off 
to tell how long it had been since Tachyon left the senator's room, but he could 
still hear Hartmann moving around next door. Now was the time to nail him, 
before any more Secret Service showed up. He straightened the shoulders on his 
jacket, stepped out into the hall, and paced over to Hartmann's door. His hand 
was on the knob when he heard someone call out.
"Who are you?"
Spector pulled his hand away from Hartmann's door like he'd taken an electric 
shock and turned to the sound of the voice. It was Jack Braun, and the Golden 
Boy looked suspicious and unhappy. Spector didn't think, he ran. He could hear 
heavy footfalls as Braun came after him.
Spector sprinted down the hallway and yanked open the door to the stairwell. 
Something grabbed his forearm as he stepped through. A tall, blond Secret 
Service agent tried to spin him against the wall. Spector knocked off the man's 
glasses and locked eyes. Why wouldn't these Hitler youth refugees let him alone? 
Golden Boy came through the doorway just as the dead agent hit the floor.
Jack sat downstairs at Hartmann HQ and ate pizza, waiting for Tachyon to finish 
his meeting with Hartmann. The mood was generally jubilant. Hartmann was less 
than a hundred votes from the 2,082 necessary to win, and it looked as if all 
the efforts of a platoon of secret aces might not be able to stop his progress. 
Flying ace gliders soared across the room. Amy Sorenson was laughing as she 
chatted in the corner with Louis Manxman. Even Charles deVaughn was occasionally 
allowing moments of cheerfulness to break through his scowling self-involvement.
Still, Jack worried. He needed to talk to Tachyon. Barnett was going to have to 
resort to desperate measures, and Hartmann's guardians needed to be prepared. He 
finished his pizza and headed across the room to where Amy was talking to the 
journalist. "Excuse me," he said, "but has the senator finished with Tachyon 
yet?"
Amy looked up at him with a relaxed smile. "Tachyon? He might still be up there. 
Don't know."
"Thanks." Amy seemed surprised at his curtness. Jack turned and trotted toward 
the door, passing Billy Ray, who, napkin in hand, was trying to get tomato sauce 
and cheese off his white suit.
Jack took the elevator up to Hartmann's floor. An undistinguished-looking man 
with an acne-scarred face was trying the knob to Hartmann's door. Alarms began 
going off in Jack's mind. He started moving faster.
"Hey," Jack said. "Who are you?"
The man looked up in surprise, then bolted.
Jack's own surprise nearly halted him in his tracks before he remembered he 
ought to chase. He dug his toes into the carpet and charged.
This one, he thought, wasn't going to get away. The man was heading for the only 
stairway on this corridor, and Alex James was posted there. Between Alex and 
Jack, this character was not about to make his escape.
The intruder ran full tilt into the metal stairwell door, throwing it open with 
a booming crash that echoed even in the silent hallway. The door slammed shut. 
Over the whimper of wind in his ears, Jack heard the sounds of a scuffle.
Then he heard a scream.
The marrow-chilling wail, the ultimate sound of terror and despair, turned 
Jack's nerves to fire.
The scream bubbled away.
Jack lunged forward like a base runner diving for second and hit the door bar 
with both hands. The door thundered open, then slammed to a stop: Jack bounced 
headfirst off the metal as it stopped his dive. He growled as he ripped the door 
off its hinges, his power bathing the hallway in lucid golden light.
Alex James was lying on the landing, his face still set in a rictus of his final 
shriek, hand on the butt of his pistol. A chill danced up Jack's spine as he saw 
the face, and for the first time he realized the assassin might be a wild card.
Too bad for him, Jack thought.
No playing with this one. He wasn't letting this assassin get away like the 
hunchback.
Footsteps rattled on the stairway as the assassin spun around the metal 
guardrail at the bottom of the first flight. Jack caught a glimpse of a pale, 
scarred face and wild hair as the intruder ran down steps four or five at a 
time. Jack didn't bother to follow him down the stairs-instead he just vaulted 
the rail and dropped straight to the bottom of the second flight.
The assassin was right under him as he dropped-Jack kicked out as he came down, 
and his lashing foot caught the assassin in the side, hurling him off a wall and 
down onto the landing. Jack dropped to an easy crouch and spun to face the 
assassin. The man, face drawn with shock and pain, was picking himself up off 
the stained concrete.
Triumph roared like a hot wind through Jack's heart. Jack jumped in front of the 
assassin, planted both feet, and shot out a punch.
The man saw it coming and tried to jerk his head out of the way, but Jack's 
punch caught him in the side of the jaw. A spray of blood spattered the rough 
concrete wall. The assassin bounced off two different walls and pitched full 
length down the third flight of stairs, landing on his side. Jack's feet broke 
traction and shot backward. His upper body fell forward onto the palms of his 
hands.
Jack picked himself up, heart hammering, and shook blood from his knuckles. The 
assassin wasn't moving. Jack stepped cautiously toward the killer.
Something crunched under one foot. Jack lifted his heel and saw it was one of 
the assassin's teeth.
Streams of blood poured down the stairs from the killer's mutilated face. The 
crushed jaw was hanging by a strip of skin. Jack winced. He really needed time 
to get used to the results of serious violence, and he hadn't had it. He hadn't 
been in a fight since the Stacked Deck put down in Paris.
He knelt by the man and looked at the blood-spattered face. Maybe he'd seen the 
man before.
The killer's eyes opened and stared into Jack's.
Death reached out from the man's eyes and seized Jack by the heart.
There was blood everywhere, and all of it was his. Spector grabbed his 
dislocated jaw, took several deep breaths, and jammed it back up into the 
socket. He blinked away the tears, but not the searing pain. Spector stood 
slowly and leaned against the concrete wall.
Golden Boy wasn't moving and didn't seem to be breathing either. Spector hadn't 
really figured he could hurt Braun much less kill him, but was happy to be 
wrong. This was no time to be impressed with himself. He had to move. The fight 
had been quick, but noisy, and more Secret Service would show up any minute.
He slipped off his shoes with his free hand and started down the steps. One 
flight. Two flights. He wouldn't be far enough away until he lost count. They 
could test the blood from the landing and find out he was an ace. A killer ace. 
He pressed the edges of his torn cheek together with his thumb and forefinger. 
The flesh began to knit itself together. Was it ten flights now? How many floors 
would that be?
A door opened in the stairwell above him. Spector moved to the far wall and 
hugged it as he descended. He knew there was someone above him, looking up and 
down for a hand on the rail or someone looking back. He wasn't going to make 
that mistake. But what was his next move? He still had the key to 1031. It was 
risky, but he couldn't think of anything else.
His sides were killing him. Golden Boy had broken a couple of his ribs, too. 
Spector was breathing okay, though; at least his lungs hadn't been punctured.
He stopped at the landing on the tenth floor and took off his coat. His jaw had 
stayed connected to his skull, that was something, but he wouldn't be talking 
for a while. Spector used his coat lining to wipe the blood from his face and 
neck. Some of it was already crusting over and he had to scrape it off with his 
fingernails.
There were voices and rapid footfalls from above. Spector couldn't tell how far 
away they were or even if they were headed down. He was a dead duck here, 
though. That much was a sure thing. He spit into his palms and rubbed his hands 
over his face, trying to get any remaining bloodstains off. His jaw still felt 
like there was a circus strongman trying to pull it off.
Spector slipped his shoes back on and opened the door, then stepped out into the 
hall and made sure it shut quietly behind him. He folded his coat over his arm 
so that no blood was showing and walked slowly toward the open-air atrium. The 
lobby area was more crowded than the hallway, but no one seemed to be paying any 
attention to him. He coughed as a bit of dried blood came loose in the back of 
his throat. A man at the railing turned and gave him a glance, then looked back 
up into the airshaft.
"Golden Boy," the man said, drunkenly, and pointed with an unsteady hand. 
Spector stared straight ahead and quickened his pace. He caught the movement of 
the corner of his eye. A Golden Boy glider spiraled slowly toward the ground 
floor. Spector knew it would hurt to smile, so he didn't try. He'd killed Braun 
and the Astronomer. Who else in the world could have done that? If he could get 
close enough to Hartmann it wouldn't matter that the senator was an ace. Spector 
would take him out, too.
He turned down his hallway and walked to the door of 1031. He'd gotten away 
again. It was almost like somebody was on his side. Maybe God was trying to make 
up for all those years of shit. Keep it up, Spector thought. He slipped his key 
into the slot, waited for the green light, and went in.
"The airline ticket was made out in the name George Kerby. "
Ackroyd's voice went very shrill on the final two words. Tachyon pulled his 
computer key out of the door, and pocketed it. As he stepped in, he heard Hiram 
rumble, "Tickets in the name of a ghost."
From Ackroyd. "Yeah, a ghost. A specter." "James Spector!" Hiram said.
"And both George Kerbys came back from the dead," Jay said. "She hired that son 
of a bitch Demise."
Their backs were to him. They hadn't noticed his quiet entrance.
"We have to let them know," Hiram said. He crossed the room, picked up the 
phone, and punched for the operator. "Connect me to the Secret Service."
At last they noticed him. Hiram staring at him with dread, Ackroyd with 
shuttered, snake-like eyes.
"It... it's not true, is it?" Hiram said desperately. "Tell me that it's all 
some hideous mistake, Gregg can't be ." Pity filled him for the loss of dreams, 
and shattering of faith. "Hiram," Tach said softly. "My poor, poor Hiram. I saw 
his mind. I touched the Puppetman." The horror of it returned again, and Tachyon 
shuddered. "It is a thousand times worse than we could ever have imagined."
The strength drained from his legs, and Tach sat on the carpet, buried his head 
in his hands, and began to weep. Through his misery he heard Hiram say, "God 
forgive me."
What has He to forgive you for? I should have seen. Twenty years! I should have 
realized. I should have known! Wracking sobs made his chest ache. Tachyon 
realized he was spiraling into hysterics. Grimly he reached for control, and the 
sobs began to subside.
"What are we going to do?" asked Hiram. "Blow the whistle," Jay said.
Tachyon bounded to his feet. "No!" he said. "Are you mad, Ackroyd? The public 
must never learn the truth."
"Hartmann's a monster," Jay objected.
"No one knows that better than I," said Tachyon. "I swam in the sewer of his 
mind. I felt the vileness that lives inside him, the Puppetman. It touched me. 
You can't imagine what that was like."
"I'm not a telepath," Jay said. "So sue me. I'm still not going to help you 
whitewash Hartmann."
"You do not understand," Tachyon said. "For close to two years Leo Barnett has 
been filling the public ear with dire warnings about wild card violence, 
inflaming their fears and their mistrust of aces. Now you propose we tell them 
that he was right all along, that a monstrous secret ace has indeed subverted 
their government. How do you think they will react?"
Jay shrugged. "Okay, so Barnett gets elected, big deal. So we have a right-wing 
dork in the White House for four years. We managed to survive Reagan for eight."
Tachyon was stunned by this stupidity. "You cannot know the half of what I found 
in Hartmann's mind. The murders, the rapes, the atrocities, and him always at 
the center of his web, the Puppetman pulling his strings. I warn you, if the 
full story ever becomes known, the public revulsion will touch off a reign of 
terror that will make the persecutions of the fifties look like nothing." The 
alien gesticulated wildly. "He killed his own unborn child, and feasted on the 
pain and terror of its death. And his puppets ... aces, jokers, politicians, 
religious leaders, police, anyone foolish enough to touch him. If their names 
become known-"
"Tachyon," Hiram Worchester interrupted. His voice was low, but anguish sobbed 
in every syllable.
Tachyon glanced guiltily at Hiram.
"Tell me," Hiram said. "These... puppets. Was ... was I ... one of ... " He 
couldn't finish, choking on the words. Tachyon nodded. A small quick nod. A 
single tear rolled down his cheek. He turned away.
Behind him Tach heard Hiram say, "In a grotesque way, it's almost funny," but he 
did not laugh. "Jay, he's right. This must be our secret."
When he turned around Tach found Ackroyd looking from Hiram to himself, and back 
again. The detective's eyes were bitter. "Do what you want," he said, "just 
don't expect me to vote for the fucker. Even if I was registered."
Suddenly Tach realized this was too important. He could not rely upon only their 
unsupported word. "We must take a vow." Tachyon said. "A solemn oath, to do 
everything in our power to stop Hartmann, and to take this secret to our 
graves."
"Oh, gimme a break," Jay groaned.
"Hiram, that glass," the alien snapped. Hiram handed him the half-finished 
drink, and Tachyon upended the contents on the carpet. He bent, slid the long 
knife out of his bootsheath, and held it up in front of the fascinated and 
aghast humans. "We must pledge by blood and bone," he said.
His grip on the hilt was slick with sweat, but he slashed hard across his left 
wrist. He was pleased that his only reaction was a soft almost inaudible intake 
of breath. Perhaps Earth had not softened him as much as he feared. Tach held 
the wound over the glass until there was an inch of blood on the bottom, then 
bound his wrist in a handkerchief and passed the knife to Ackroyd.
The detective just looked at it. "You got to be kidding." 'No. '
"How about I just piss in it instead?" Jay suggested. "The blood is the bond."
Hiram stepped forward. "I'll do it," he said, taking the knife. He shrugged out 
of his white linen coat, rolled up his sleeve, and made the cut. The pain made 
him inhale sharply, but his hand did not hesitate.
"So deep," Tachyon muttered. The cut was deep enough to be dangerous. Was Hiram 
so devastated by the betrayal that suicide seemed an option? Hiram winced and 
held his hand above the glass. The red line crept upwards.
Tachyon bent a stern eye on Ackroyd.
Jay sighed deeply. "So if you two are Huck and Tom, I guess that makes me Nigger 
Jim," he said. "Remind me to have my head examined when all of this is over." He 
took the knife, and yelped as the blade bit into the skin.
Accepting the snifter from the sweating Jay, Tachyon swirled the glass to mix 
the bloods one with the other, then lifted it above his head and chanted in 
Takisian. "By Blood and Bone, I so vow," he finished. He threw back his head, 
and drained a third of the glass in one long gulp.
Tachyon thrust the glass at Hiram. Both the humans looked nauseated.
"By Blood and Bone," Hiram intoned, and took his ritual swallow.
"Am I allowed to add some tabasco, maybe a little vodka?" Jay asked when Hiram 
gave him what was left.
Ackroyd's wisecracks were beginning to wear a little thin. "You are not," said 
Tachyon stiffly.
"Pity," Jay said. "Always liked Bloody Marys." He lifted the glass, muttered, 
"Blood and Bone," and drank the last of the blood. "Yum," he said afterwards.
"It is done," Tachyon said. "Now, we must make plans."
"I'm going back to the Omni," Hiram announced. "I was among Gregg's earliest 
supporters, and I daresay I am not without influence in the New York delegation. 
I may be able to have some impact. We must deny him the nomination, at all 
costs. "
"Agreed," said Tachyon.
"I wish I knew more about Dukakis ... " Hiram began. "Not Dukakis," the alien 
said. "Jesse Jackson. He has been courting us all along. I'll speak to him." He 
clasped hands with Hiram. "We can do it, my friend."
"Real good," Jay said. "So Greggie doesn't get to be president. Big deal. What 
about all his victims? Kahina, Chrysalis, the rest of them."
Tachyon glanced over. "Not Chrysalis," he said, not believing he had forgotten 
to tell them this.
"What?" Jay croaked.
"He threatened Chrysalis, yes," the alien said. "He made her and Digger watch 
while his creature tortured and killed Kahina, but he never acted on that 
threat. When he heard of her death on Monday morning, he was as surprised as 
anyone."
"No fucking way," Jay said. "You got it wrong."
Nostrils tightening in fury Tachyon pulled himself up to his full height. "I am 
a Psi Lord of Takis, trained by the finest mentats of House Ilkazam," he said. 
"His mind was mine. I did not get it wrong."
"He sent Mackie after Digger!" Jay argued.
"And he commanded Oddity to retrieve the incriminating jacket, and destroy it. 
Most assuredly. After he heard that Chrysalis was dead, he took steps to protect 
himself. But he had no hand in ordering that death." Tachyon put a hand on Jay's 
shoulder. "I'm sorry, my friend."
"Then who the fuck did it?" Jay demanded.
"We have no time to argue about this now," Hiram said impatiently. "The woman's 
dead, nothing will-"
"Quiet," Jay said urgently.
A newsflash flickered across the screen. ". latest tragedy to strike the 
convention," a solemn announcer was saying. "Senator Hartmann is unharmed, 
repeat, unharmed, but reliable reports indicate that the ace assassin took the 
lives of two other men in his attempt to reach the senator. We are still waiting 
for final confirmation, but unofficial sources indicate that the killer's 
victims were Alex James, a Secret Service agent assigned to Senator Hartmann-" A 
photograph of the dead man appeared on the screen, above the announcer's 
shoulder. "-and the chairman of Hartmann's California delegation, ace Jack 
Braun. The controversial Braun, who starred in feature films and TV's Tarzan, 
was better known as Golden Boy. He was considered by some to be the strongest 
man in the world. Braun first came to public attention- ... "
Jack's picture appeared on screen as the announcer went on and on. He was in his 
old fatigues, smiling crookedly, surrounded by a golden glow. He looked young, 
alive, invincible.
"Oh, Jack," Tachyon said. For thirty years he had prayed for Jack's death. Even 
plotted it in angry alcoholic dreams. Now it had come and another little part of 
Tisianne died.
"He can't be dead," Hiram said furiously. "I just saved his damnable life last 
night!" The television set floated off the carpet. Scraped against the ceiling. 
"He cannot be dead!"
Hiram insisted, and all of a sudden the TV was falling. It hit the floor, and 
the picture tube exploded.
"He will not have died in vain," Tachyon said. Did it mean anything? He didn't 
think so. He just spoke to assure himself that he was still alive. Tach touched 
Hiram on the arm. "Come," he said.
The pain was greater than anything Jack had ever imagined. It burned through him 
from head to toe, searing every nerve, every muscle, every square millimeter of 
skin. His brain had gone nova. His heart was an exploding turbopump. His eyes 
felt as if they were melting. Every cell in his body was on fire, every strand 
of DNA in revolt against its inherited code.
The black queen, Jack realized. Somehow he'd just drawn the black queen.
He could feel his body shutting down in protest against the agony. Bit by bit, 
organ by organ, like someone throwing all the circuit breakers in a big 
building.
The pain ended.
He saw himself crumpled on the landing, his face set in an expression of dumb 
shock. The assassin, barely able to move, managed to get his jacket off and wrap 
it around his head, stopping the flow of blood from his mangled jaw. "Hey," Jack 
said. He tried to grab the guy. "Stop!" Somehow the assassin crawled away.
"Yo. Farm boy."
Jack looked up in surprise at the sound of Earl Sanderson's voice. Earl looked 
younger than when Jack had seen him last, the young athlete just graduated from 
Rutgers, and was dressed in his old Army Air Corps fatigues with the insignia 
taken off, his leather flying jacket with the patch of the 332nd Fighter Group, 
the black beret, and long silk scarf. The Black Eagle scholar, athlete, civil 
rights attorney, ace ... and maybe Jack's best friend.
"Hi, Earl," Jack said.
"Man, you're slow," Earl said. "We're supposed to be flying out of here by now."
"I can't fly, Earl. I'm not like you."
"Slow, farm boy." Earl was grinning. "Slow."
Jack was mildly surprised when they both began to fly. The Marriott Marquis was 
gone and they were in the sky, heading toward the sun. The sun began to get 
brighter and brighter.
"Hey, Earl," Jack said. "What's going on here?"
"You'll work it out sooner or later, farm boy."
The sun was almost blinding, the yellow light turning whiter and whiter, all 
color leached away. Jack saw other people there, guys from the 5th Division and 
Korea, his parents, his older brother. The were all flying, rising into the sky. 
Blythe van Renssaeler neared him and gave him a shy smile.
"Damn. He's asystolic," she said. "Flat line."
"Huh?" Jack looked at her.
Archibald Holmes strode confidently toward him, dressed in a white linen suit. 
He lit a cigarette and put it in its holder.
"Hi, Mr. Holmes."
"Okay," Holmes said. "I got the ET down his throat. Where's the bag?"
"Why does he keep glowing on and off like that?" Blythe asked.
"Can't help it, really," Jack shrugged.
"Start 02," said Holmes. "I'm going to shoot some epinephrine down the 
endotrachial tube. I'll want a milligram of atropine in a minute."
Jack looked around and saw that Earl was holding hands with a long-legged woman 
with blonde hair tousled over one eye and broad, padded shoulders.
"You must be Lena Goldoni," he said. "I've seen your pictures."
"We've got fibrillation," said Lena.
"Slow," Earl said, shaking his head. "Farm boys are so slow." His scarf was 
rippling in an invisible wind.
Jack realized he was here with almost all the old Four Aces crowd, everyone 
except David Harstein, and he began to wonder if he should apologize for what 
he'd done to them, how he'd destroyed them all. But they all seemed so happy to 
see him he decided not to mention it.
More people were clustering around him. Some of them he'd forgotten he'd known. 
Even Chester the Chimp, who'd played opposite Jack in Tarzan of the Apes, was 
there, riding on someone's shoulders.
"Give him three-hundred joules," said the ape. "Stop CPR. Clear! Clear, Goddamn 
it! Get your hand off that metal rail, will you, Lois?"
The light was getting brighter and brighter. Circling around them, the rays 
seemed almost palpable, like the walls of a tunnel. Jack felt his speed increase 
as he shot toward the source of the light. He began to hear people singing, a 
million voices raised in joy.
The light grew nearer, not just white light but the White Light. Jack's heart 
lifted. He began to understand what it was that Earl wanted him to know.
"Three-hundred-sixty!" shrieked the ape. "Clear! Clear!" Jack stretched out his 
arms and prepared to dive into the heart of the White Light. Suddenly he seemed 
to hesitate in his progress. He was slowing down. Desperately he tried to speed 
up. He longed to fly farther.
He realized the White Light was looking at him.
"What a weenie," the White Light said. "Get that weenie outta here."
Jack coughed and opened his eyes and saw people crouched over him, men and women 
he recognized from Gregg Hartmann's Secret Service detail, working with 
emergency medical equipment that was part of their standard issue. He felt an 
ache in his solar plexus and he couldn't stop coughing. Jack looked up over 
their heads, saw blood-flecked concrete walls and steep stair risers.
"Normal sinus rhythm," one said. "We got pulse. We got pressure." He spoke in 
Archibald Holmes's voice. A couple of the others cheered.
A tall brown-haired woman was speaking into a walkietalkie. "Ambulance on its 
way." The voice was Blythe's.
"I blew it," Jack tried to say. He couldn't talk over the endotrachial tube 
they'd slid down his throat. "I blew it again." He was too weak too feel much 
emotion over it.
The ambulance crew arrived and carried him away.

8:00 P.M.
He had himself well in hand. The emotional devastation of an hour ago was 
passed. Jack was dead. The friendship, the man he had known as Gregg Hartmann 
was dead. Chrysalis was dead. Very well. So be it. He was in control now. He 
would do what had to be done.
But these officious twits were arguing with him. Mouths moving, gums and tongues 
red against black and whitefaces. "I'm telling you the reverend is busy. You 
don't have an appointment," said the black aide patiently, as if explaining 
addition to a retarded child.
"He will see me. I am Tachyon," explained the alien in the same patient, 
condescending tone.
"Go and phone. Use appropriate channels," said Straight Arrow calmly.
"I don't have time for appropriate channels," snapped Tachyon. His control was 
unraveling like line reeling from a fly fishing rod.
"It's late," put in the aide.
The door to the suite was partially ajar. Tachyon measured the gap between the 
two far bigger men. It would accommodate him. Wriggling like a fish he darted 
between them, and through the door.
"HEY!"
Shouts. A wall of people advancing upon him. Phones shrilling. A television 
pouring its electronic inanities into the crowded suite.
"Get out of my way! GET OUT OF MY WAY! WHERE IS HE? I MUST SEE HIM!" His voice 
ringing shrilly in his own ears.
"You can't just waltz in here-" bawled Straight Arrow. People had gripped him by 
arms and legs, lifting him completely off the ground. Tach screamed with fury, 
and writhed in their grasps. Mind-controlling people frantically, he felt the 
holds on him loosen, then jerk tight again as new people stepped forward to 
replace those he had dropped slumbering to the floor.
The connecting door to the bedroom flew open, banging violently into the far 
wall. Jesse Jackson, reading glasses clutched in his hand, glared at his 
supporters, and roared, "LET HIM GO!"
The two oldest Jackson sons pushed back the irate staffers. The very pretty and 
very self-possessed Jackie Jackson helped Tachyon smooth his coat. Slowly order 
was restored. Jesse Jackson beckoned to Tachyon, and he joined him in the 
bedroom. The door closed, blocking off the worst of the noise, and the curious 
gawking faces.
"Here." Tachyon opened his eyes. Jackson had thrust a hotel glass filled with 
scotch under his nose. "You believe in making an entrance, don't you, Doctor? 
You couldn't have just called and asked to see me?"
Tach pressed a hand to his eyes. "I didn't think." Squaring his shoulders he 
pushed up and off the wall that had been supporting him. "Call a press 
conference, Reverend. You have just become the new, best hope for the wild 
cards."
Jackson seemed bereft of words. He slapped his hand against his thigh then took 
several quick turns about the cramped room.
"Why?" His tone and expression were equally grim. "Upon reflection I have become 
convinced of the strength of your arguments."
"Bull. You roar in here like a madman. You're shaking like a leaf... . " 
Desperately Tachyon clasped his hands, trying to still the betraying tremors. 
"What's happened?"
The Takisian flung out a hand in a sharp jagged gesture. "Do you want what I am 
offering you, or not?"
"Yes. But I want to know why."
"No."
"Yes. Look, Doctor, you're going to have to tell the press something. You may as 
well practice on me."
The bed in the suite was an elaborate canopied affair. Tachyon wrapped his hands 
about the neweled post, and rested his forehead against the wood. In a flat 
monotone he recited, "Gregg Hartmann's instabilities are well-documented. Though 
everyone hoped that the tragedy of 1976 was forever behind the senator I have 
determined that this morning's events have badly shaken the candidate, and I 
cannot in good conscience support the gentleman in his bid to secure the 
presidential nomination of the Democratic Party." He dropped his hands, and 
turned to face Jackson. "There, will that do?"
Jackson smoothed his mustache with a forefinger, "Yes, I think it just might." 
His eyes were grave as he looked down at the tiny alien. "Do you fully 
understand the consequences of what you are doing?"
"oh, yes." The words came out, carried on a breath. "And that doesn't deter 
you?"
"I cannot let it." Tach headed for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob, 
and looked back, "I am trusting you with my people, Reverend. You had best not 
prove my faith unfounded."

10:00 P.M.
"-instabilities are well-documented," the small man with the long red hair was 
saying from the midst of the television screen. In the background the letters 
JAC and SON winged out either side of the grinning giant black man beside him. 
"I fear that the tragic events of this morning have overwhelmed Senator Gregg 
Hartmann."
"You fucker, you fucker!" Mackie Messer screamed, spewing fried pork-rind crumbs 
at the screen. His skinny, twisted little body was practically levitating above 
the taut hotel bedspread, like a speck of superconductor caught in a magnetic 
field.
The pork rinds tasted mostly of salt and grease. Failure tasted like shit.
Der Mann hadn't sent him away. He had permitted him to stay, in a room as stolen 
as the pork rinds-funny how you could always find an empty room no matter how 
jammed a hotel was. At least if you could walk through walls.
It had been close. Mackie could tell. He could always tell when rejection was 
near. He had a lot of experience with it. Tachyon looked directly into 
molten-silver glare. It seemed to push his eyes back deep in dark pits.
"I am no longer convinced of Senator Hartmann's abilities adequately to 
represent the Democratic Party, either as a presidential nominee or as 
president. Therefore I have decided to support the Reverend Jesse Jackson, who 
has demonstrated his commitment to jokers... . "
For a nigger! The alien bastard was throwing over the Man for a jungle savage! 
And Mackie, who could at least have killed the blonde cunt who was trouble for 
the Man, had fucked up.
He was worthless. He deserved the Man's rejection. Just as he deserved to be 
abandoned by his mother. With a sob he tore a pillow from the candy-wrapper 
embrace of the bedspread and stuffed it over his face as if that could keep the 
tears in him.

11:00 P.M.
The phone rang. Tachyon glanced at Jay's slumbering form, but the detective 
didn't even twitch. He was beyond mere sleep; it was an exhaustion so deep that 
it was almost unconsciousness. Tachyon stared at him in bitter envy. He was bone 
tired, but his restless mind would not allow him to rest. Knocking back the last 
inch of brandy in his tumbler, the alien reached out and snagged the phone.
"Hello. No, I'm not giving interviews-"
"Dr. Tachyon, this is the front desk. The Great and Powerful Turtle is hovering 
in front of the entrance, and he's calling for you."
"Tell him I am busy. "But-'
Tachyon replaced the receiver, and resumed drinking. A few minutes later the 
phone rang again.
"Look, goddamn it! Meet me! We've got to talk." Tachyon pondered on where Tommy 
had parked the shell while he made the telephone call. "No, Tommy."
"You owe it to me."
"No."
He hung up the phone, and had another drink.
The glass blew in with the sound like a rocket detonating. With a yell of terror 
Tachyon wrapped his arms about his head as glittering slivers rained across 
carpet and furniture. Turtle was a vast black bulk blotting out the stars. There 
were shouts of confusion coming from the hall.
"You can hang up a phone. I thought I'd call in person."
"Oh, Tommy."
"Let's go, we've gotta talk."
"I can't."
Turtle's power seized him. Swung him out the shattered window, and held him 
suspended three hundred feet above the pavement. "You can."
Tachyon glanced down at the roofs of the cars flowing past beneath him. 
Swallowed his stomach. "All right. I can." Turtle deposited him softly on the 
rounded back of the shell. Tach groped for a hand hold. He was too drunk to 
balance without it.
"Why, Tachy?"
"I had to."
"One more ballot, and we would have had it." Tachyon remained silent. "Look, 
goddamn it, talk to me!"
"I cannot."
"You cannot." Tommy imitated in a whining, prissy little tone.
Anger stirred wearily. "Look, Tommy, what's the problem? Jackson holds every 
position that Hartmann held."
"Jackson can't become president."
"You don't know that."
"Jackson is a black guy who supports jokers!"
"I decided he was the best person to represent the wild card interest."
"You, you decided? Just like that. Well, what about the rest of us?"
"You have known me for twenty-five years. You must trust me."
"Trust you. Even though you betrayed us. You know what you've done. You've just 
given the nomination to Barnett."
"No I haven't! And you know me well enough to know that I have sound reasons for 
what I've done."
"Then tell me what the fuck they are!"
"No." Tach began to cry.
"Shit, you're drunk."
They were skimming the roof tops, spotlights stabbing at windows, and cornices. 
The curving roof of the Omni Convention Center came into view. In the darkness, 
thousands of lights flickered at the foot of the sprawling building. Tach, 
blinking away the moisture that clouded his eyes, realized that a sea of silent 
jokers, their masks and deformities highlighted by the flames of a thousand 
candles, stood in mute vigil.
"Look at them. Look at them good. What are you gonna tell them, Tach? Trust me? 
While the troops come to round them up."
"It will not come to that."
"And if it does?"
"It would not change the decision I have made tonight." Turtle read it as 
arrogance, and it snapped his control. "JESUS CHRIST, WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK 
YOU ARE?" A number of curious masked faces were lifted toward them.
Tachyon's temper shredded. "I am Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek 
Omian of House Ilkazam, and when I do a thing it is for a good and sound reason. 
Do not question me!"
"I'm not your fucking serf!"
"No, but you are my stirps, formally adopted by me. You are blood and bone of my 
line, you and your heirs forever bound to my house. You forget yourself!" he 
hissed.
"Oh fuck you! Fuck you to hell! We're just playthings to you. That's all we've 
ever been. Lab rats in your great experiment."
They were over Piedmont Park now. Turtle dropped like a plummeting stone, and 
seizing Tachyon with his teke, he deposited him on the steps of a fountain.
"For the last time, Tachyon, answer me."
"I cannot."
The power lashed out. Caught Tachyon across the face. He fell backward down the 
steps, landing hard on his side.
Groaning, he struggled onto an elbow. He was blinded by the floods as Turtle 
swooped in low. Gingerly Tach explored his ribs. Decided they were merely 
cracked not broken. Turtle hovered for an instant then shot straight up, and 
vanished over the trees of the park.
Tachyon did not miss the message or the symbolism in that single blow. December 
1963. The steps of Jetboy's tomb. "You don't give a damn about anybody."
"But I do. I'm doing this to protect you. Because I love you. He has a killer 
who can walk through walls. And I took a vow. "
But Turtle had raised one terrifying specter-Barnett-as president. Tachyon had 
kept Hartmann from the presidency; he now had to stop Barnett. And for that he 
needed Jack.
By the time the ambulance got Jack to the hospital he was feeling okay, though 
weakened. Assuming he'd had a heart attack, they put him through a battery of 
tests. He was too tired to resist, but by the time they announced the results 
were negative and they were going to do a brain scan for sign of a 
something-something-cerebral-episode, Jack's strength had come flowing back, and 
he put his foot down. It was an ace power that had hurt him, he said, and he'd 
lived through it. There was nothing wrong with him physically. The whole thing 
happened in his head.
The doctors compromised by making Jack stay overnight for observation. Minutes 
after the nurses left, he was on the phone to Billy Ray, describing the man he'd 
seen and the nature and extent of his powers.
"He's working for Barnett," Jack said. "He and the other guy, the leather boy."
"I'll pass on your suspicions," Ray said. "The guy who got you, by the way, we 
figure that was James Spector, a.k.a. Demise. He's got a certain rep. Put on a 
pair of shades, though, and he can't lock eyes with you."
"Tell the senator, for Christ's Sakes. That's two aces aiming at him."
"The senator's got other things to think about, Jack boy. Tachyon and the jokers 
have defected to Jesse Jackson." "What?" Jack sat bolt upright in bed.
"The fucking alien bastard."
"When did this happen?"
"About the same time a certain Golden Weenie was getting his ass kicked in the 
stairwell. Talk to you later, asshole."
Jack hung up the phone and stared for a long moment at the darkened television 
set propped in the corner.
The screen was the same blank color as James Spector's eyes. A cold flood 
lurched up Jack's spine.
And then he thought, the secret ace. The secret acehell, Leo Barnett, call the 
guy by his name-Barnett got Tachyon somehow. Probably through Fleur. Fleur got 
him alone and Barnett hit him with something.
Jack slid out of bed and found his blood-spattered clothes in the closet. He 
started drawing them on.
He was alone now. And he knew what he had to do. Tachyon was pounding his fists 
on the nurses' station. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't seem to stop.
"How could you have let him leave? How could you? I need to see him. I must see 
him!"
"Doctor," said a slim black nurse gently. "I'm going to call Dr. English from 
the psych ward-"
"I do not ... require ... a ... psychiatrist. I require ... Mr. Braun."
"And he's ... not ... here," the nurse said with the same careful enunciation 
Tachyon had used.
A hand closed vise-like about his elbow. "Dancer, come away. "
Tachyon whirled, the violent move pulling a groan from him. Polyakov kept his 
grip on the Takisian's elbow, fingers tightening painfully on the joint. Meekly, 
Tachyon allowed himself to be led away.
"We knew from the news reports that you had at last come to your senses," said 
George quietly as they walked out of the hospital.
"We?"
He waved down a cab. "Sara. I'm caring for her."
"Oh thank the Ideal. Take me to her-"
"What do you think I'm doing?" grunted Polyakov as he swung open the door of the 
cab.

CHAPTER SIX
Saturday July 23, 1988
1:00 A.M.
They stood before a door at a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Atlanta. Tachyon tried 
to think what he would say to the woman he had so wronged, but all he could 
think about was how tired he felt. He tried to figure out when he had last 
slept. He had a bad feeling it had been Tuesday night.
Polyakov rapped once sharply on the door. "Sara, it's George."
Tachyon tensed for the moment, and then Sara was there, staring strained and 
white-faced up at him. She wore a crumpled blue-and-white dress. The petticoats 
crackled as she backed away, arms folded protectively across her breasts. 
Polyakov was a stolid dark shadow behind him. Tachyon felt his throat work 
several times as he tried to force out words. Suddenly he advanced on her in a 
rush. Dropped to one knee, and lifting the hem of her skirt, pressed it to his 
lips.
"Sara, forgive me."
She was making faint inarticulate mewing sounds. Her fingertips brushed 
wraith-like across his hair as he knelt with bowed head before her.
"What's he doing?" she finally asked pathetically. "Making an overly dramatic 
Takisian gesture. In times of stress, he reverts to this sort of extraordinary 
behavior," grunted the Russian. "I'll leave you two alone." The door closed 
softly behind him, and they listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall.
She tugged at his shoulder. "Oh, get up, please."
The pain from his cracked ribs drew a grunt from him as Tach pushed to his feet. 
"Forgive me if I embarrassed you, but words were inadequate. I have wronged you 
horribly."
"Then ... then ..."
"Yes, you are not mad," he said answering her greatest fear. "I have confronted 
the monster." She began to cry. Gently he reached out with a fingertip, and 
wiped her cheeks. "Oh, Ricky."
Her shoulders were jutting blades as he pulled her into an embrace. "Hush, it is 
over now."
Throwing back her head she looked up at him. "Really? Truly?"
"Yes. His momentum is broken. He can never regain it." Her lashes fluttered 
wearily down onto her cheeks. "Then I'm safe."
"Yes."
He kissed her, tasting the salt from her tears. Her white-gold hair lay across 
his shoulder as she rested her head against him. So tiny. She was one of the few 
women on this hot-and-heavy planet who made him feel tall. Elfin pale, 
approaching Takisian standards of beauty. And he remembered that he had wanted 
her. Three years ago when she had entered his life, begging him to save the 
pathetic joker Doughboy who had been wrongfully accused of murder. Now he was 
whole-or at least his body was. And he was lonely and lost and afraid, and so 
was she... . He transferred his kisses to her mouth.
He knew she could not be a virgin, but there was something so delightfully shy 
and awkward about her responses. He swung her up into his arms, and groaned 
again.
Her head snapped back, tendons etched in the thin neck. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing." He tottered to the bed, ignoring the pain. Laid her down.
He wondered at this sudden surge of libido when all about him his life lay in 
shattered ruins. Then he realized it was appropriate. The Takisian spirit was a 
dauntless one, and it would always seek to lure victory out of defeat, creation 
from despair. Tach paused, asked, "Do you want me?"
"Yes, oh, yes. I'm so grateful ... so very grateful." She choked, and the tears 
matted in the hair at her temples. Sliding his hands up her haunches Tach 
snagged the top of her panty hose, and pulled them down. And noticed that runs 
and holes had left them like a tattered cobweb beaten in a killing wind.
"Oh, my poor little one. My little, little one."
Suddenly he was sobbing. Agony shot through him as the paroxysms shook his sore 
ribs. Sara, looking terrified, pressed her palms to his cheeks.
"Oh, don't. Please don't. What's wrong?"
"I trusted him, and he betrayed me. Now," his arm flailed in the general 
direction of Piedmont Park
"they think I've betrayed them. I'm so tired. So tired."
Sara with gentle hands undressed him. Got him beneath the covers. Her naked 
flesh was as clammy as his. For a long time they merely hugged, shivering as 
their minds and bodies tried to relax. Tachyon had a hand cupped over one tiny 
breast. Sara lay in the curve of his arm lightly tracing the line of his lips 
with a forefinger.
"It's probably a good thing I'm not on Takis."
"Why?"
"I'd have been dead long ago. If a mere human, a groundling, can outmaneuver me 
at the Takisian game." He shook his head.
"Which is?"
"Intrigue. I've known Hartmann for twenty years. And I never suspected."
"He was very cunning. I've spent-" Her voice deepened and thickened with 
bitterness. "And ruined-my life pursuing him."
"And now you've succeeded. Was it worth it?"
"I don't know." She sighed, and he kissed her.
Tachyon barked out a short laugh, then muffled a groan. " I have no idea where 
my thirteen-year-old grandson is, isn't that incredible? I'm so damned busy 
strutting about the grand stage of life that I have no time to live. I wonder 
what it would be like to be just a person?"
"Boring. You'd hate it."
Easing up on an elbow, Tach stared down at her. "Do you think so?"
"Yes."
He laid back down. "I don't know. To have a wife, children, friends."
"You have friends."
"I think I lost most of them tonight."
Sara began to cry again. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault-" Tachyon laid a hand 
over her mouth. "No, that's my line."
"Ricky loved me, and he had him cut to pieces. I never even slept with him."
The alien slid his hand down her stomach, matted his fingers in her coons. "Then 
let us honor the dead by celebrating living."
"Isn't that a little callous?"
"Hush, Sara, you think too much."

2:00 A.M.
Jack was sweating as he sat up in bed, his back propped against thick hotel 
pillows. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood in his hand. He'd run through two 
packs of Camels.
The television was on, an old Boris Karloff suspense film. Karloff kept looking 
at Jack with James Spector's eyes. Jack turned the set off with remote control. 
The television kept staring at him, so he got out of the bed and turned the TV 
set to the wall.
He knew what he had to do. He didn't know if he had the nerve to do it.
He'd never done this kind of thing by himself before. There'd always been Mr. 
Holmes or Earl or someone to give him advice and make sure everything worked out 
all right.
The secret ace had already come close to killing him twice.
Third time, he wondered, the charm?

10:00 A.M.
Tachyon was seated in front of the room service tray buttering a slice of toast 
when Jay emerged from the bedroom. He wore one of Tachyon's suits, and though it 
was too short in the arms and legs, the man looked decidedly more elegant and 
well kept.
Blaise, stretched out across an armchair, looked up and sniggered. Tachyon gave 
his grandson a stern look. "Blaise, did you enjoy your little ride on the 
luggage carousel?"
The boy looked sullen. "No. I felt stupid."
"Then by the Ideal you will mind your manners," Tachyon told him, "or I will 
have Mr. Ackroyd teleport you back to the Atlanta airport."
"I can't help it if he's funny," Blaise complained. "He looks like a fruit."
"Those are my clothes," Tachyon pointed out stiffly. "Myself, I think it's a 
dramatic improvement."
"I'm with the kid," Jay said. Blaise looked surprised. Then he grinned. Jay 
whipped up his finger in a quick-draw move. Blaise flinched. "Gotcha," Jay said. 
He smiled. So did Blaise.
Tachyon watched this in confusion. Apparently teleporting his wayward heir 
halfway across Atlanta had established a rapport. He remembered George once 
telling him that Blaise needed to fear someone before he could care for them. 
Tach felt depressed.
"He's enough of a rapscallion without your encouraging him," Tachyon muttered.
"Ah, he's okay," Jay said, pulling a chair over to the room service cart. "For a 
Takisian." He lifted the silver dome off his plate, and attacked the Eggs 
Benedict wolfishly.
Tachyon was patting his lips with a napkin and Jay was mopping up the last of 
the yoke with a piece of toast when the knock came at the door. Tachyon stood. 
"Who's there?"
"Carnifex. Open up, I don't have all day."
Tachyon glanced back at Jay. "Let him in," the detective said. "Rays tough, but 
there's nothing he can do against you, me, and the Cisco Kid over there." He 
gestured toward Blaise.
The alien nodded and opened the door. Carnifex glanced around and stepped into 
the suite, wearing his skin-tight white uniform that outlined every muscle and 
tendon in his body.
"Regs say we're supposed to stay out of the political bullshit," Ray told 
Tachyon with disdain. "Good for you. Otherwise I'd have to whip your ass. You 
been hanging around Braun too much, I guess. Some of it must have rubbed off."
Tachyon's mouth tightened. "Say what you came to say, Ray," he told the 
government ace. "Your opinions on political and moral issues interest me not in 
the slightest."
"Gregg wants to see you."
"The sentiment is not reciprocated."
"You'll see him," Ray said, with a crooked smile. "Gregg said to tell you he has 
a proposition he wants to discuss."
"I have nothing to discuss with the senator."
"Scared?" Ray wanted to know. "Don't worry, I'll hold your hand if you want." He 
shrugged. "Come or don't come, either way it's no skin off my nose. But if you 
don't, you're going to regret it." The ace in the white suit looked around the 
suite: at the windows Turtle had shattered, the television Hiram had dropped, 
the urine stain on the sofa. "Must have been a hell of a party," he said to 
Tachyon. "Somebody ought to teach you to clean up after yourself, Doc. This 
place is a mess."
He was going out the door when Ackroyd called out. "Hey, Carny."
Tachyon winced.
Ray turned around with a dangerous glint in his green eyes. "That's Carnifex, 
asshole."
"Carnifex Asshole," Jay repeated.
Tachyon winced again, and closed his eyes.
"I'll try and remember," Jay continued. "How many of those Good Humor suits you 
own?"
"Six or eight," Carnifex said suspiciously. "Why?"
"Must be hell to get the bloodstains out," Jay said. Tachyon couldn't believe he 
was hearing this. As a child Ackroyd must have enjoyed kicking over ant hills, 
and investigating beehives.
Ray glared at the detective. "Stay out of my way, shamus," he said, "or you'll 
find out firsthand." He slammed the door behind him.
"Shamus," Jay said. "He actually called me shamus. God, I'm so mortified." He 
turned to Tachyon. "You gonna go?" Tach straightened, and lifted his chin. "I 
must."
Jay sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say something like that."
Maybe he'd got some sleep, maybe he'd just passed out from time to time. He 
figured he better do what he had to before all motor coordination went to hell 
and he couldn't punch the numbers on his cellular phone.
"The Reverend Barnett, please."
"May I say who's calling?" The female voice spoke with a heavy Spanish accent.
"This is Jack Braun."
The accented voice was prim. "The Reverend Barnett is not available to anyone, 
Mr. Brown. He is in a prayer vigil expected to last until-"
"He'll talk to me!" Jack's voice rose to a near shout. "Sir," with feigned 
patience, "the Reverend Barnett-"
"Tell him," Jack said, "that I can deliver California." There was a long pause 
before the voice returned. "I will connect you to Miss van Renssaeler."
Little hangover stilettos entered Jack's eyes at the mention of the name.
At least he was getting closer to the reverend.
He's coming. Puppetman could sense Tachyon's arrival from Billy Ray's disgust. 
We're making a mistake not trying to take him ...
No! Gregg was vehement. He's too strong for us. If we attack him that way, he'll 
have an excuse to retaliate. My way's better.
You're weak. You're feeling guilty.
The accusation was too close. Yes, he was feeling guilty. He'd known Tachyon for 
twenty years, after all. Just shut up, he told Puppetman. Let me handle this.
Sure. Sure. Who else has he told? Hiram knows. Maybe lots of others...
Shut up!
Gregg was facing out of the window as Billy-with obvious ill will-ushered 
Tachyon into the suite. "One traitor for you, Senator," Ray said as he held the 
door open. "Wonder how much they paid the little creep?" Ray shut the door 
behind Tachyon so closely that the alien had to step quickly into the room or 
have it strike his leg.
Gregg continued to shuffle through the pages of the folder he held in his hands, 
slowly and deliberately turning the pages. He waited until he heard Tachyon 
sniff in irritation.
"Say whatever it is you want to say, Senator. I do not have a great deal of time 
to waste on you."
The words hurt, more than they should have. I didn't do those things, he wanted 
to say. Puppetman did them. But he couldn't say that because Puppetman was 
listening. He turned around to face the red-haired alien and tossed the folder 
on the coffee table in front of Tachyon. "Damned interesting reading matter, 
that," he said. "Go on, Doctor. Pick it up."
Tachyon glared, but he snatched up the folder with delicate fingers. He riffled 
through the pages stamped with justice Department seals and shrugged. "What is 
it, Senator? Play out this farce and be done with it."
"It's simple enough, Doctor." Hartmann seated himself in one of the chairs, 
lounging back. He put his feet on the coffee table with studied nonchalance. 
"You invaded mv mind and took ammunition to use against me. I don't like being 
stuck with an empty revolver in a duel. So I went looking for things about you. 
I wondered who was whispering about me in your ear. I wondered where the lies 
might have come from."
"They are not lies, Senator. I saw the disgusting, perverted filth in your head. 
We both know that."
Please, Puppetman begged at the insult. Let me try. No!
Gregg waved a hand. "Someone convinced you to rape my mind, Doctor. I know Hiram 
was partially involved, but Hiram reallv wants to believe in me. He's not the 
source. Mv guess was that it had to be Sara, and if it was Sara,, she might have 
been working in concert with someone else. You see, I know Kahina-you remember 
poor Kahina, Doctor?-had talked with Sara. I know she and Gimli had had contact 
with another man, a Russian. I even had a photograph. And I have friends in high 
places, remember, Doctor? They checked a few other things out for me, checked 
backgrounds and chronologies. You'd be surprised at what they'd found, or then 
maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't."
Gregg shook his head. He gave Tachyon the famous crooked half-smile that had 
become the cartoonist's icon for Hartmann. "It's actually ironic, isn't it, 
Doctor? The HUAC folks were right all along. You always were a goddamn communist 
from outer space."
Tachyon had gone white. His body shook, his lips were pressed together into a 
hard line. Puppetman caught the overflow of emotions and chuckled. Got him. We 
got him.
"Bang," Gregg said. "You see, I've got a few bullets, too. One called Blaise, 
and one called Polyakov-and other names. Very high-caliber ammo."
"You can prove nothing," Tachyon blustered. "Your own people say Polyakov is 
dead. Kahina is dead. Gimli is dead."
"Everyone you touch seems to be dead. All you have is hearsay and innuendo. No 
facts."
"Polyakov has been seen here, in Atlanta. The other facts would be easy enough 
to find," Gregg told him comfortably. "But I don't want to go to the trouble."
"And what is it you do want?"
"You know that as well as I do, Doctor. I want you to say you made a mistake. I 
want you to tell the press and the delegates that it was all a private 
misunderstanding between me and you, and that everything's patched up again. 
We're friends. We're pals. And you'd sure as hell be disappointed if everyone 
didn't vote for me. If you don't want to actively campaign for me, fine. Leave 
Atlanta after you make your statement to the press. But if you don't do that, I 
will start digging for those facts you're so casually dismissing. You might take 
the nomination away from me, Tachyon, but I'll make sure you get dragged down 
with me-you and that upstart grandson as well."
It had worked. Gregg was certain of it. Tachyon blustered wordlessly, his fists 
clenched around the folder so that the cardboard crumpled, bright spots of color 
on his cheeks. The prissy little wimp was about to goddamn cry, his eyes welling 
with tears.
We've won. Even if all he does is keep his mouth shut, we've won. We'll be okay. 
You see? Gregg told Puppetman. And after this is over, we'll find a way to take 
him out. Finally and permanently.
Tachyon was crying, a line of wetness trailing down from both eyes. He drew 
himself up like a bantam rooster, his chest puffed up, and he glared at 
Hartmann. Gregg laughed, scornfully.
"We have a deal, then," Gregg said. "Good. I'll have Amy set up the press 
conference-"
"No," Tachyon said.
He hurled the folder at Gregg. Papers scattered like ghostly autumn leaves. 
"No!" Tachyon said again, and this time it was a defiant, weeping shout. "You 
may do as you wish, Senator, but no. You may go to hell. And as for your threats 
to take me with you, I don't care. I have been there before." Tachyon turned to 
leave as Gregg shot to his feet. Puppetman howled inside, frantic. "You son of a 
bitch!" he screamed at Tachyon. "You stupid bastard! All I have to do is make 
one phone call and you're finished! You'll lose everything!"
Tachyon glared back at Gregg with smoldering violet eyes. " I lost everything 
important long ago," he told Gregg. "You can't threaten me with that."
Tachyon opened the door, sniffed loudly, and closed it with silent dignity 
behind him.
He awoke to the sound of the door opening. Spector was lying under his bed. He'd 
spent the night there, afraid to sleep in the open. He peered out through the 
inch-tall gap between the carpeted floor and the edge of the bedspread. A pair 
of brown buckle-down shoes walked past and clopped onto the tiled bathroom 
floor.
"Nobody in here again last night." It was a black woman's voice. "Wasting our 
goddamn time on this junk. Guess I'd better call the man and tell him."
"That's what they said to do," said a voice from the hall. "So, I'd do it if I 
were you."
The feet moved over next to the bed. Spector held his breath.
The woman lifted the receiver and punched in four numbers. Waited. "He's never 
at his desk. Always wanting to be with the delegates, or Secret Service." She 
cleared her throat. "Yes, sir, this is Charlene up in 1031. There was nobody 
here last night. Course, I'm sure. You know we smelled whiskey the first night 
he was in, but not since." A long pause. "Yes, sir. We'll keep an eye on the 
room." She hung up the phone. "Asshole."
There was laughter from the hallway.
The woman walked back toward the door. "You know, if we're going to do this spy 
shit, I think we should get paid extra for it. Don't see why we should bust our 
asses to make Mr. Hot-Shot Hastings shine." She closed the door.
Spector could hear the woman carrying on outside the room. Even a New Yorker 
would have trouble getting a word in edgewise with her.
He was dead tired. His jaw felt like it had been stuck back on with ten-penny 
nails. Moving would take more effort than he was willing to make right now. He 
closed his eyes and listened to the maids' cart squeak its way down the hall.
Breakfast of steak and coffee hadn't quite done the job of making Jack ready to 
face the Reverend Barnett and a stable of killer aces, but a couple last-minute 
shots of vodka had. They'd steadied his hands for shaving-not that he could have 
cut himself if he tried, since even the wicked cutthroat he used couldn't match 
his protective wild card-but he hated to do a sloppy job.
While he dressed, he watched the news. The day's first ballot had Hartmann down 
by two hundred. About thirty of Jack's own delegates had defected, some to 
Dukakis, some to Jackson. Barnett was up about forty votes total.
A new sense of urgency poured through Jack.
He dressed in his summer power suit of navy blue cotton, handmade by an old man 
in New Jersey he'd been going to for forty years, a light-blue Arrow shirt, 
black Italian wingtips, red tie-he never understood why power ties were supposed 
to be yellow now, since yellow ties always made him think of someone who'd been 
careless with his breakfast eggs. He put on heavy Hollywood shades, partly to 
hide his hangover, partly in case Demise was waiting for him somewhere, and took 
another welcome shot of vodka before he left. He'd buy some cigarettes in the 
lobby.
Barnett's limousine met him at the door. The traffic was impossible, complicated 
by marching jokers and Catholics for Barnett and Mutants for Zippy the Pinhead 
and shuttle buses disgorging journalists from the outlying hotels where they'd 
been quartered.
Fleur met him at the door to the Omni Hotel. His nerves did a little dance at 
the sight of her, but he managed to repress his urge to flee, and instead smiled 
and shook her hand. " I have an elevator waiting," she said.
"Fine." They stepped across the polished lobby floor.
"I apologize for any difficulty Consuela gave you. She's used to fielding calls 
from cranks."
"No problem."
"She's a refugee from the anti-Ladino persecutions in Guatemala, a poor young 
widow with three children. The reverend made it possible for her to stay in this 
country."
Jack turned to Fleur and smiled. "That's remarkable, that a man as busy as the 
Reverend Barnett would take the time to help someone like that."
Fleur looked into his deep black shades. "The reverend's like that. He cares."
"Not just the reverend, I'm sure. You've been possessed by the spirit of charity 
yourself, I'm sure."
Fleur tried to look modest. "Well, I-"
"I mean, sacrificing your chastity just to cure old Tach of his problem."
She stared at him, goggle-eyed.
"By the way, just between us," Jack grinned, "did he ever manage to get it up?"
Jack, smiling, followed a white-lipped Fleur out of an elevator whose 
temperature seemed to have dropped about fifty degrees. Secret Service people, 
Lady Black among them, prowled the long corridor leading to Barnett's suite. 
Jack hoped she didn't recognize him.
He passed by a busy suite filled with tables and campaign workers. Most of them 
seemed to be women, many of them young and attractive.
They came to a door, and Fleur knocked. Leo Barnett, looking younger than his 
thirty-eight years, opened the door and stuck out his hand.
"Welcome, Mr. Braun," he said.
Jack stared at the hand, wondering if Barnett could take his mind by touching 
him; and then, summoning nerve from somewhere, he reached out and took the hand.
He was shaking again. Tachyon paused, the glass almost to his lips, and 
considered. How many drinks did this make for the morning? Two? Three? He set 
the glass aside with overly broad gestures. Patted it firmly as if to keep it in 
place, to keep it from flying back to his hand, crossed to the ravaged room 
service breakfast tray, and took a bite of cold toast.
His stomach revolted. Gasping, cold sweat breaking at his hairline, the alien 
staggered into the bathroom, and sluiced water over his face. From the bedroom 
he could hear Blaise and Ackroyd talking, laughing.
Crossing to the bedroom Tachyon opened the door. The conversation broke off. Jay 
looking up inquiringly, Blaise with a brooding light in those strange 
purple/black eyes.
"Mr. Ackroyd, come in here, please. I need to talk to you."
Jay shrugged, tried to pull down the pants that hiked up above his ankles. 
Followed Tachyon into the sitting room. "What did Hartmann want?" he asked as he 
poked at the room service tray.
"Mr. Ackroyd, I require a favor of you."
"Sure, name it."
Tachyon lifted a hand. "Do not be so quick to commit yourself. Having me in your 
debt may not be enough to outweigh what I will ask of you."
"Jesus Christ, get to the point, Tachyon. All this flowery Takisian bullshit." 
Jay sank his teeth into an orange slice, and tore away the meat.
"Hartmann is blackmailing me. I have refused to meet his demands, but I require 
time. A day, two at the most, and it will be over. Hartmann will have lost the 
nomination." Tach's voice ran down, and he stared blankly into an eternity of 
blasted hopes. Gave himself a shake and resumed. "You can give me that time."
"The point? The point?"
"You must remove a man from Atlanta. The more conventional means are closed to 
us."
Suspicion bloomed in the detective's eyes. "Why? Who is this guy?"
The abandoned drink came easily to his hand, the beaded glass cool against his 
palm. Tach drained the brandy in a long swallow. "Long ago I was saved from 
death by a man who has alternately been a devil and an angel to me."
Ackroyd threw his hands into the air. "Shit."
"This is difficult for me," Tachyon flared. He rolled the glass between his 
hands; then burst out, "In 1957 I was recruited by the KGB." He smiled sadly at 
Ackroyd's expression. "It wasn't all that difficult. I would have done anything 
for a drink. At any rate, years passed. I proved to be less useful than 
originally hoped. They cut me loose, and I thought I was free. Then last year 
the man who ran me those many long years ago re-entered my life and called the 
debt. He's here. In Atlanta."
"Why?"
"Hartmann. He suspected the existence of the monster. Now Hartmann has found out 
about him, and our connection."
"Connection?"
"He is Blaise's tutor."
"Oh hell." Ackroyd dropped into a chair.
"This is the bludgeon with which Hartmann seeks to cow me. I'm probably going to 
jail, Mr. Ackroyd. But I'll see him stopped before I go."
"You want me to pop this guy away."
"Yes. Already the FBI and the Secret Service have been alerted. They are combing 
Atlanta for George."
"Are you still a commie?"
Tachyon laid fastidious fingers against the lace at his throat. One slender 
copper eyebrow arched arrogantly. "I? Consider, Mr. Ackroyd."
The detective eyed the slim peacock figure dressed in green, orange, and gold. 
"Yeah, I get your drift." He slapped his hands onto his thighs, and pushed up 
from the chair. "Well, hey, it's all ancient history to me. Let's go pop this 
commie somewhere."
Tachyon opened the door to the bedroom. "Blaise.-"
"You're taking him? I mean, he knows?"
"Of course. Come child, I want you to have a chance to say farewell to George."
Here Jack had come in his power suit, hoping to impress the well-dressed 
conservative preacher he'd seen on the tapes; and instead Leo Barnett looked 
about as formal as Jimmy Carter slopping around the house in Plains. Barnett was 
dressed in worn jeans, a checked shirt, and black Keds. His razor-cut blond hair 
was slightly disordered. He shambled back into his room and stuck his hands in 
his pockets.
"Would you like breakfast? I believe there's plenty left on the buffet."
Jack looked around the room where Barnett had spent his prayer vigil. It was an 
ordinary hotel suite, with a little kitchenette, a wet bar, a big TV, even a 
hooded fireplace with some rolled-newspaper logs. All the light was artificial: 
the curtains were drawn, as per Secret Service instructions. A picture of 
Barnett's fiancee stood on one table, a Macintosh Il sat on a table, and there 
was a silver steam table on wheels near the door, presumably with breakfast 
under its covers.
"I've eaten, thanks," Jack said. "Coffee, then?"
Jack considered the state of his nerves and his hangover. What the hell, maybe 
he'd already blown it in the elevator. "I don't suppose a Bloody Mary would be 
possible . .?"
Barnett didn't seem in the least surprised. "I expect we can find one 
somewhere," he said. He turned to Fleur. "Could you try and oblige Mr. Braun? 
Perhaps the press room downstairs would be the place to start."
"Certainly, Leo." Her tones were set at about three degrees Kelvin.
Barnett smiled at her warmly. "Thank you so much, Fleur."
Jack's gaze bounced from Barnett to Fleur to Barnett again. Slut for the Lord? 
he thought again; and then, I wonder if his fiancee knows?
"Have a seat, Mr. Braun."
Jack picked an armchair and settled into it. He reached into his pocket for a 
Camel. Barnett drew another armchair close to Jack's right side and sat in it, 
hunched forward slightly, his attitude expectant.
"How can I help you, Mr. Braun?"
"Well." Jack took a deep breath and summoned what nerve he could. He tried to 
remember the acting lessons he'd taken forty years before. "See, Reverend," he 
said, "I've almost died twice in the last couple days. I went off a balcony, and 
that was maybe enough to kill me if Hiram Worchester hadn't made me lighter than 
air, and last night this ace called Demise actually seemed to have stopped my 
heart for a while ..." His voice trailed off. "The thing is," he said 
insistently "I wonder if somebody's trying to tell me something."
Barnett gave a little wry smile, then nodded. "You haven't had much occasion to 
give thought to the eternal, have you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Life has always been right here on Earth for you. You've had eternal youth. An 
indestructible body. I assume you don't have to worry about money." He gave Jack 
a frankly admiring glance. "I remember Tarzan very fondly, by the way. I don t 
think I ever missed an episode. I remember swinging from a rope down by the 
swimming hole back home, trying to give that yell you used to do."
"I never did the yell, actually," Jack said. "It was dubbed in, a lot of 
different voices kind of strung together electronically."
Barnett seemed a bit disappointed. "Well. I guess you don't think about that 
when you're ten years old." He grinned again. "Whatever happened to the chimp, 
by the way?"
"He's in the San Diego Zoo." Which was the answer Jack always gave to that 
question, though it was completely untrue. Chester the Chimp, shortly after 
entering adolescence, had been shot dead after trying to tear off his trainer's 
arm. Most people, Jack had learned, preferred the chimp to have a happy 
ending-an attitude Jack had no sympathy with, having himself always disliked the 
surly little scene-stealing beast. Barnett seemed to recollect himself. "I'm 
sorry, Mr. Braun," he said. "I'm afraid I've let myself distract you."
"That's okay. I'm not sure what I was going to say, anyway. "
"Many people don't have the terms for talking about the eternal." Barnett gave a 
quick, self-deprecating grin. "Fortunately, we preachers are more or less 
equipped for the job."
"Yeah. Well. That's why I'm here."
Jack was having a hard time reconciling this laid-back Barnett with the 
ferocious preacher he'd seen in the video tapes, the blond panther stalking his 
own congregation, the predator Jack was certain was a secret, murderous ace. 
Could this be the same man?
Jack cleared his throat. "You ever seen Picture of Dorian Gray? A great old 
Albert Lewin picture from the forties. George Sanders, Hurd Hatfield, Angela 
Lansbury." He cleared his throat again. The endotrachial tube had left it 
irritated, and his smoking wasn't helping it. "Donna Reed, I think," he said, 
trying to remember. "Yeah, Donna Reed. Anyway, it's about this young man who has 
his portrait painted, and his soul goes into the portrait. He starts living a 
real, I dunno, wicked life, whatever you want to call it, but he never has to 
face any of the consequences. He just stays young, and the portrait gets old and 
... dissipated? Is that the word?"
Barnett nodded.
"Anyway, at the end, the picture gets destroyed, and Dorian Gray gets all old 
and evil all at once and drops dead." He grinned. "Special effects, you know? 
Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about that. I've been thinking, you know, I've 
stayed young for forty years, and I haven't led a precisely unstained life, and 
what if it wears off? What if I get old all of a sudden, like Dorian Gray. Or 
what if some crazy ace kills me?"
Jack realized he was shouting. His heart lurched at the further realization that 
he wasn't acting any more, that all this trauma was genuine. He cleared his 
throat again and settled into his seat.
Barnett leaned toward Jack, put a hand on his arm. "You'd be surprised how many 
visits I've had from people in our situation, Mr. Braun. Perhaps their 
presentiments were not as ... spectacular as yours, but I've seen a lot of 
people resembling you. Successful, outwardly contented men and women who gave no 
thought to the eternal until thev were touched by it. Perhaps a warning heart 
attack, perhaps a loved one killed in an accident or a parent suffering a fatal 
illness ..." He smiled. "I don't believe any of these warnings are accidental, 
Mr. Braun."
"Jack." He stubbed out his cigarette. He'd almost lost it there, he thought.
"Jack, yes. I believe there is purpose to these warnings, Jack. I believe the 
Almighty has ways of reminding us of His existence. I believe that in these 
narrow escapes you've had, there is a revelation of God's purpose."
Jack looked through his dark shades into Barnett's twinkling blue eyes. "Yeah?" 
he said.
There was a burning intensity in Barnett's china-blue eyes. "The Lord says, 
`Look unto me, and be ye saved, all ends of the Earth: For I am God, and there 
is none else."'
Look unto me, Jack thought: did Barnett mean God or himself? The preacher spoke 
on.
"Your wild card gave you a false belief in your own immortality, and the Lord 
has seen a way to warn you of its falsity, remind you whence true immortality 
lies, and spare you to do His work."
There was a knock on the door. As the sound pulled him out of his track, Barnett 
seemed to jolt slightly. He looked at the door.
"Come in."
Fleur entered with a Bloody Mary in a one frigid hand. "Mr. Braun's drink."
Jack smiled at her. "Call me Jack. Please."
She glared at him while Jack took the drink from her hand and looked into it 
under the rims of his shades to see if perhaps she'd spit in it.
"Thank-you so much, Fleur." Barnett didn't smile quite as warmly this time. His 
words were a dismissal, and Fleur obeyed.
Jack sipped his drink. It was excellent: apparently someone in the press room 
knew how to keep the journalists happy. "Is it good?" Barnett seemed genuinely 
curious.
"It's fine." Jack took a bigger swallow.
"I've never ..." Barnett waved a hand. "Well, that doesn't matter." Surprise 
rang through Jack at Barnett's wistful tone, precisely that of a small boy whose 
mother. won't let him outside to play in the rain.
Maybe, Jack thought, Barnett really hadn't had any choice in his life. :Maybe 
they'd all been made for him. Maybe the only time he ever did anything he wasn't 
supposed to was when he ran away to the Marine Corps.
Hell, he thought savagely. Nobody makes you run for president.
Barnett leaned back in his armchair, steepling his fingertips under his chin. 
His attention had returned fully to Jack. Jack looked at the preacher carefully 
from behind his big shades.
"I'd like to tell you about a dream of mine, Jack," Barnett said. His voice was 
soft, gentle. "The Lord put it into my mind some years ago. In this dream, I 
found myself in a giant orchard. Everywhere I looked there were fruit trees, all 
rich with God's abundance. There were all sorts of fruit in the orchard, Jack, 
cherries and oranges and apples and persimmons and plums-every conceivable 
variety all filling God's vast cornucopia. The orchard was so beautiful that my 
heart just swelled up with joy and gladness. And then--" Barnett looked up to 
the ceiling, as if he was seeing something there. Jack found his eyes following 
the preacher's, then caught himself. Stage craft, he thought. He took a healthy 
swallow of his Bloody Mary.
"And then a cloud came over the sun," Barnett continued, and a dark rain began 
to fall from the cloud. The rain fell here and there in the orchard, and 
wherever it touched, the fruit was blighted. I could see all the oranges and 
lemons turning black and falling from the tree; I could see leaves withering and 
dying. And more than that, I could see the blight growing even after the rain 
passed, I could see the darkness reaching out to try to taint the healthy trees. 
And then I heard a voice.
The preacher's voice changed, deepened, became stern. A chill surged up Jack's 
spine at the completeness of the transformation. "'I give this orchard into thy 
keeping. Unto thee I give the task of destroying this blight."'
Barnett's voice and manner changed again. He was fervent, exultant. His powerful 
voice rang in the small room. "I knew the fruits of the orchard were God's 
children, made in His image. I knew the rain cloud was Satan. I knew the blight 
was the wild card. And I threw myself down on my face. `Lord!' I prayed. `Lord, 
I am not strong enough. I am not worthy for this task.' And the Lord said, `I 
will give thee strength!"' Barnett was screaming now. "`I will make thy heart as 
steel! I will make thy tongue as sharp as a sword, and of thy breath a 
whirlwind!' And I knew I had to do as the Lord asked of me."
Barnett jumped out of his chair, paced back and forth as he talked. Like God was 
jerking his chain, Jack thought.
"I knew I had the power to heal the wild card! I knew that the Lord's work had 
to be done, that His orchard had to be pruned!" He waved a finger at Jack. "Not 
as my critics would charge!" he said. "I would not prune wickedly, or 
arbitrarily, or maliciously. My critics say I want to put jokers in 
concentration camps!" He gave a laugh. "I want to put them in hospitals. I want 
to cure their affliction, and keep it from spreading to their children. I think 
it is sinful of the government to keep wild card research at such a low level of 
funding-I would multiply it tenfold! I would wipe this plague from the Earth!"
Barnett turned to Jack. To Jack's amazement there were tears in his eyes. 
"You're old enough to remember when tuberculosis was a plague upon the land," 
Barnett said. "You remember all the hundreds and thousands of tubercular 
sanatoriums that sprang up all over Arizona and New Mexico, where victims were 
kept from infecting others while science worked on a cure. That's what I want to 
do for the wild card."
"Jack!" Barnett was pleading. "The Lord has prolonged your life! The Lord has 
spared you from death! This can only be because He has a place for you in His 
plan. He wants you to lead the victims of this plague to their salvation. `He 
was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the 
chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.' 
Healed, Jack!" Barnett's face was joyful, rapturous. He stood in front of Jack, 
raised his hands triumphantly. "Won't you help me, Jack! Help me bring the cure 
to God's afflicted! Pray with me now, Jack! `Verily I say unto thee, Except a 
man be born again, he cannot see the Kingdom of God-but as many received Him, to 
them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe in His 
name.",
Jack, to his astonishment, felt as if a giant hand had gripped him by the neck 
and flung him out of his chair. Suddenly he was on his knees in front of the 
preacher, his two hands raised and clasped between the hands of the Reverend Leo 
Barnett. Tears streamed down Barnett's face as he lifted his head and cried out 
in prayer.
"`Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature; old things are passed 
away; behold all things become new. "' The man's power was almost palpable, Jack 
thought. This couldn't be all good showmanship and razzle-dazzle. Jack knew 
about showmanship; he'd never seen anything like this.
He's an ace, Jack thought. My god, he really is an ace. Maybe he'd never really 
believed it till this minute. Barnett was an ace, and Jack was going to bring 
him down.

11:00 A.M.
Cal Redken sounded like the acne-scarred junk-food addict he was. In the 
background of all his conversations was the rustle of plastic wrappers; his 
words were slurred by the effort of sneaking around wads of Twinkies, Snickers, 
and Fritos. He sounded fat and slow and lazy.
Only the first of those was true.
Gregg had taken him as a puppet long ago, more from reflex than desire. He'd 
played with Redken's voracious appetite, mildly amused that he could make a man 
eat until he was literally, sickeningly, stuffed. But that had not fed Puppetman 
particularly well, and Gregg had rarely utilized his link. Redken was not 
Hiram-an ace with peculiar abilities and tastes. Redken was a competent, if 
sedentary, investigator. There was no one better at following the confusing 
labyrinth of bureaucracy. It had been Redken who'd put together overnight-the 
unproved web of conjecture with which Gregg had confronted Tachyon.
Now, he'd make sure the conjecture became fact.
The phone rang twice at the other end, followed by an audible gulp and "Redken."
"Cal, Gregg Hartmann here."
"Senator." Cellophane tore in the background; a new snack being opened. "You get 
my package all right?"
"Early this morning, Cal. Thanks."
"No sweat, Senator. Interesting stuff you had me looking up," he added 
reflectively. He took a bite of something, chewing noisily.
"That's what I want to talk with you about. We need to pursue this further. I 
need to know if we can bring charges against Tachyon."
"Senator"-swallow-"all we have now is circumstantial stuff. A Russian agent 
assigned to the right city in the right year, another coincidental crossing of 
paths in London last year, your contact in the JJS and her story, a few other 
tenuous links here and there. Nothing's solid. Not even close."
"It scared hell out of him, Cal. I saw it. I know something's there."
"That's still far from proving it."
"Then it has to get closer. You know what Video told us last year. Gimli and 
Kahina had definite Soviet connections. An agent met with them one night last 
year in New York, and Gimli called him Polyakov."
"Polyakov's dead, Senator. All our sources say the same thing; the KGB and the 
GRU believe it too. Maybe they're just using his name to confuse us."
"They're all wrong. Video still has the pictures in her mind. He matches 
Polyakov's description."
"So do a few thousand other people. There's a lot of fat, bald, old men. Plus, 
you're not going to get any court to accept a joker's wild card talent as 
evidence. A mental projection isn't a photograph."
"It's a start. Find her, look at what she has. Listen to her. Then keep 
digging."
Redken sighed. Plastic crackled like dry leaves, and his voice was suddenly 
muffled by something soft. "Okay, Senator."
"I'll do it. I'll try. How soon do you need this."
"A week ago. Yesterday at the latest."
Another sigh. "I get the idea. I'll call New York as soon as I'm off. Anything 
else?"
"Soon, Cal. I gotta have this soon."
"You're asking me to miss lunch."
"You do this for me and I'll buy you your own damn restaurant."
"You got a deal, Senator. Talk to you later."
The last word was obscured as Redken placed another bite of something in his 
mouth. The line clicked and went dead.
"Somebody's on us."
"What?" Tachyon slewed around in the cab, and stared out the back window.
Ackroyd laid a hand on his arm. "Easy. He's good. You'll never spot him that 
way. Cabby." The detective fished out his wallet. "There's an extra fifty in it 
for you if you can lose the gray Dodge. Back about three cars."
The man's black face split in a wide grin. "Sure thing, mister."
Tachyon followed Jay's mortified gaze as the detective fanned out a ten and 
three ones. Grumbling Tachyon pulled out his wallet, and stripped off the bills, 
tucked them into the driver's shirt pocket. And promptly landed in Ackroyd's lap 
as the cab accelerated abruptly into a hard left turn. Blaise, grinning 
delightedly, clung like a young monkey to the front seat.
"Just like Paris, K'ijdad." "Huh?" asked Jay.
"Never mind. You know enough of my secrets," growled Tachyon.
Jay glanced behind. "Still on us. Damn, he's good."
"What are we going to do?" The fluttering in his stomach was back, and Tach 
could feel a fine shivering running through his hands.
Ackroyd ran a hand across his mouth. "There's probably not going to be time for 
any long good-byes."
The Motel 6 sign loomed ahead. "Sara's there, too," said Tachyon.
"Jesus Christ. You got the whole New York Philharmonic there? Maybe the 
Dodgers?"
"This is no laughing matter."
"No shit. Punch it, buddy. Everything she's got."
The cab gunned down the street, turned with a squeal of tires into the parking 
lot. The threesome were out before the car had stopped rolling. Jay flung his 
remaining ten over his shoulder as they pelted for the room.
Sara was curled up on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, pillow clutched to her 
chest, listening to the television. Polyakov, a bemused expression on his round 
face, stepped back to avoid being trampled. Jay seized the edge of the door, and 
slammed it shut. Threw the deadbolt. Tachyon ran to Sara, and yanked her up off 
the bed. Blaise flung himself into the Russian's arms.
"No time to explain. Hartmann knows. There is someone after us." Tachyon seized 
Sara's dress at the neck, and pulled. It ripped with a loud rending sound. Sara 
screamed, and covered herself. She was wearing only her bra. "Into the shower, 
quick! Don't come out, and by the way, you rent by the hour." The alien was 
propelling her toward the bathroom door, unsnapping her bra as they went.
Heavy footfalls were coming down the hall at a run. Polyakov's gray eyes were 
calm, fatalistic. "There's no time."
"Yes, there is. Jay will get you out of Atlanta. For the gods' sake, Blaise, 
move!"
The water thundered on. Polyakov gently sat the boy aside.
"Open up! Open the goddamn door!" Tachyon recognized Billy Ray's voice.
"Now!" he hissed urgently to the detective. Ackroyd formed his fingers into a 
gun. Polyakov vanished. There was an audible pop as the air rushed back into the 
space formally occupied by a body.
Tachyon leaped across the room, seized the bottle of vodka on the dresser, 
ripped open his collar, and in a long, low dive threw himself onto the bed.
The door blew open, splinters flying across the room as Billy Ray bulled 
through. Jay shielded Blaise with his body, and Tach covered his face. The 
Justice Department ace had a gun, a .44 magnum. Tachyon stared down the barrel. 
It yawned like a cave's mouth.
"All right. Where is he? Where the fuck is he?"
"Huuuh?" asked Jay.
"Asshole!"
Ray stiff-armed the detective, and Ackroyd went down. Rav tore the closet door 
off its hinges, and flung down the clothes. Glanced beneath the bed, headed for 
the bathroom door. Tachyon crossed his fingers, and prayed to whatever ancestors 
might be lurking nearby.
"Get out of there. Now!"
Sara's voice floated over the rush of falling water. Clearly female. Heavily 
Southern. Tachyon prayed that he was the only one who heard the panic underlying 
the words.
"Wal, sugah, how many you boys there gonna be?"
The shower curtain rasped back. Sara screamed. For a long moment there was 
silence from the bathroom. The sharp report of a slap. Ray re-entered the room 
the pale pink imprint of a palm already fading from his cheek, the front of his 
white uniform wet from the thundering water.
Breathing heavily, he said, "He was here. That goddamn Russian was here."
Jay looked to Tach. "Russian? I don't see any Russian. Do you see a Russian? And 
sweetcheeks in there sure don't sound Russian. Russian costs you extra." He 
grinned at the outraged ace.
"Why did you try to get away from me?"
Tachyon sighed, took a long pull on the bottle. "Because I was afraid you were 
the press, and I didn't want to be found visiting a prostitute."
"You always take a kid?" He gestured at Blaise with the .44.
"Could you put the gun away? It makes me nervous when you wave it around like 
that. Most fatal shootings are accidental, you know."
Ray glared at him. "This wouldn't be an accident. Answer the fucking question."
With a delicate clearing of the throat Tachyon said, "Well, that is the matter 
in a nutshell. It's time the boy learned." He glanced about the motel room. 
"This lacks the ambience that I could wish, but she is very good. I tried her 
myself last night. Of course, nothing can compare with the woman my father gave 
to me on my fourteenth birthday-"
Ray stormed back through the shattered door. "Fourteen? No kidding?"
"Oh Ackroyd, please!"
12:00 NOON
"You call the press conference," Jack told him. "The press hasn't seen you for 
days. If I call them, they might not show up. "
Barnett had agreed.
Jack watched the convention while the plans went forward. Hartmann had clearly 
lost all momentum. Totals changed on every ballot. The only steady factor was 
Barnett's slow advance, gaining with every step as the opposition began to 
disintegrate. Rodriguez looked poleaxed every time he announced California's 
changing delegate count. Jack's heart went out to him.
The press conference was arranged in one of the hotel's function spaces, the 
place Barnett used as a press office. Jack managed to down two more Bloody Marys 
before the business began.
Fleur spoke first, standing behind a podium crowned with a forest of network 
microphones. Jack and Barnett stood off to one side as Fleur went through a long 
round of mike tests.
She kept casting Jack sidelong glances throughout. Obviously she didn't trust 
him an inch.
Even hidden behind his Hollywood shades, Jack felt naked.
"Before the Reverend Barnett's announcement," Fleur said, "there will be another 
brief announcement from someone who may be a surprise to you. I'm referring to 
Mr. Jack Braun, the head of Senator Hartmann's California delegation, also known 
as Golden Boy."
Jack didn't smile or wave as he stepped to the podium. Microphones jabbed at him 
like a forest of spears. He took off his shades, folded them, smiled into the 
blinding camera light.
He hoped the booze and sleeplessness hadn't made his eves too red.' "I've just 
finished a two-hour interview with the Reverend Leo Barnett," Jack began. He 
could hear automatic cameras making zipping noises as they fired at him. He 
gripped the podium and tried not to feel the earthquake that rocked his nerves.
"This convention has seen a lot of strange events, a lot of violence," he said. 
"Some people have been killed. Two attempts have been made on Senator Hartmann's 
life, both by wild card aces, and I have fought both those aces personally. The 
Reverend Barnett has claimed all along that wild cards have been responsible for 
much of the chaos that has plagued this campaign. After the meeting today, I can 
only agree with him."
Jack's forty-year-old media reflexes told him that the TV cameras' long lenses 
were zooming in. Except for the sound of automatic cameras and snapping 
shutters, the room was absolutely quiet. Jack screwed his face into an 
expression of deep sincerity and gazed steadily out into the audience, just like 
when, years ago, he'd played Eddie Rickenbacker telling General Pershing he 
wanted to fly.
"There are secret aces at this convention," Jack said. "There is one in 
particular who has a very influential role. He's responsible for a lot of the 
chaos here, for at least some of the deaths. I believe he can influence people 
at a distance to cause them to act in ways contrary to the law and their own 
interests. Other aces, murderous aces, work for him. They have tried to destroy 
his opponents by violence."
Jack could sense Barnett and Fleur standing to one side, their heads together as 
they tried to figure out where he was taking this. Jack gave the cameras a grim 
Clint Eastwood smile.
"After my interview this morning, I've concluded that that secret ace . ." 
Insert dramatic pause here, he thought. "Is the Reverend Leo Barnett."
Cameras began swinging crazily, trying to get Barnett's reaction. Jack raised 
his voice and shouted into the mike stand. "Barnett's behind the assassination 
attempts!" he said. Triumph sang in his veins. " I defy Leo Barnett to prove he 
isn't an ace!"
Barnett gaped at him. Fleur van Renssaeler's face was dead white, her mouth 
moving in furious, silent anger. Barnett shook his head slowly as if shaking off 
a punch, then stepped forward. Though he never intended to, Jack found himself 
backpedaling, surrendering the podium.
The preacher leaned over the microphones, hands in his pockets, and gave a shaky 
grin. " I don't know what Jack's up to, here," he said. " I came down for 
another reason entirely. But if it's what Jack wants, I'm willing to stand right 
here for however many hours it takes to assemble a team of doctors to give me 
the blood test." His grin widened. "I know I don't have the wild card, and 
anyone who says I do is a liar or ..." He cast a sidelong glance at Jack. 
"Deeply misguided."
Jack stared back into the preacher's blue eyes and felt his triumph drain into 
his black Italian wingtips.
Somehow, he thought, he'd fucked up again.
Spector turned on the tap over the bathroom sink and took a mouthful of water. 
He swished it around for a few moments and spat it out. The water was stained 
brown from the dried blood. Spector took another mouthful and swallowed it. He 
was as thirsty as he was tired. It was always this way when he had to heal up 
after a major injury.
He tested his jaw. It moved up and down without too much trouble, but side to 
side hurt like hell. He could feel the bone popping in its socket. After a few 
months it might not be so bad. All in all, things could be much worse.
He heard a sound at the door. Spector knew he didn't have time to get back under 
the bed. He looked around the bathroom. The only place big enough was the 
shower. He stepped inside just as the door to his room shut. Somebody was 
talking softly to himself in the bedroom, and Spector had an idea who it was. 
When the noises approached the bathroom, Spector held his breath. Again. Much 
more of this and he'd turn blue permanently.
He focused the death-pain. It was always there, always ready. He saw pudgy 
fingers on the edge of the shower curtain.
The man tore the plastic curtain back, and opened his mouth to scream.
Spector locked eyes before the desk clerk could get anything out. He pushed him 
to the point of death, then stopped. Spector caught him by the collar as he 
slumped over.
He leaned the man against the bathroom wall and emptied his victim's pockets. He 
took the keys and wallet, and ignored the rest. This guy probably knew just 
about everything there was to know about the hotel. If Spector could get him to 
tell the truth, he might find out a few things.
Spector bent down. He steadied the man with one hand and slapped him with the 
other. When he started to come around, when Spector was sure he could feel it, 
he popped the guy really hard a few times.
The man opened his eyes. Spector put a hand over the pudgy mouth. "Quiet. If you 
call for help. If you answer my questions in anything but a whisper. If you 
don't answer my questions. I'll kill you. You understand?"
The man nodded. Spector slowly took his hand away. "Who are you?",
"My name's." He took a breath. "Hastings."
Spector checked the wallet. "So far, so good. What are you doing in here?"
Hastings stared wide-eyed around the room, he seemed to be looking through 
Spector for a way out. "Uh, the government people told us to be on the lookout 
for anyone we thought was suspicious. I just had a feeling about you."
"I don't much appreciate that," he checked the first name on the driver's 
license, "Maurice."
Hastings wiped his mouth. "You're not who you say you are. Not Baird. You're an 
ace."
Spector nodded. "You know, with your deductive skills and your gift for hunches 
you'd make a damn good P. I."
The man gave a half-smile, trying to acknowledge the compliment in spite of his 
fear. "Thanks."
Spector waited a few moments, then added. "I hate P.I.s." He was enjoying the 
hell out of this. He'd almost forgotten about this jerkoff, and now he had the 
fat bastard on a horn.
"Oh, god, please, don't kill me. I'll do anything." Hastings was shaking. He 
wiped his mouth again.
"Oh, I'm not going to kill you. Not if you give me what I want," Spector lied, 
trying to think of the best place to hide the body. "We'll start with an easy 
question. Where's the nearest unoccupied room on this floor?"
"We're full up. I swear."
Spector clucked his tongue. "Don't bullshit me. I know there's always a few left 
vacant for contingencies. You know what I'm going to do if you keep lying to me? 
I can make you do an airwalk from the tenth floor down to the lobby. The fall 
will only take a few seconds. Make quite a mess, though. Maybe I should just put 
you in the shower and liquefy you. Down the drain you go. No muss, no fuss."
"No, please." Hastings clasped his hands together. "I think 1019 is open. Just 
don't kill me. I'm sorry I bothered you. I can do whatever you need. Give the 
Secret Service some bad leads. Really."
Spector pulled a card out of Hastings' wallet. "This is your passkey?"
He chewed his lip for a second before replying. "Yes." Spector leaned in close 
to Hastings and stared into his eyes. "You're not lying to me now?"
"No. May God strike me ... It's the truth, I swear."
"Right. Get into the shower." Spector pulled back the curtain. "Do it now."
Hastings hustled his overweight body inside. "But why?" Spector locked eyes 
again, and made it count this time. Hastings collapsed onto the tile. His body 
twitched and then was still. "That's why." He slowly closed the curtain. "Nobody 
fucks with me and gets away with it." It wasn't the best place to put a corpse, 
but as usual he'd had to improvise.
Spector checked himself in the mirror one more time. Now he had a crooked jaw to 
match his crooked smile. Maybe, when it was all over, he could buy a crooked 
house in the Bahamas. But not until Hartmann was done with. Then, he could worry 
about vacation time.

1:00 P.M.
"You weenie." There was a furious glare from Tachyon's violet eyes as he stalked 
by, medical bag in hand. Behind him, reporters were clustered three deep around 
Barnett, who had of course passed the blood test without registering the taint 
of any black rain from Satan.
"Oh, shut up," mumbled Jack, from deep in the heart of another Bloody Mary.
Tachyon spun on his heel, marched back, stood in front of Jack, his pointed chin 
thrust out. "You may have just given the nomination to Barnett! You realize 
that?"
"I thought that was you." Jack's formless anger centered on Tachyon. "I thought 
that was you, off banging Fleur and switching to Jackson when things got tough."
Tachyon colored. "The only thing you can do now is try to move California to 
Jackson."
Jack sneered at him. "Fuck you, asshole. At least I'm doing something."
Tachyon stared at him, swallowed a retort or two, then flounced away.
Jack, standing by himself at the back of the press room, realized he was going 
to be mobbed by reporters as soon as Barnett finished his speech. He headed back 
to the bar set up in the back of the room, found a 500-milliliter flask of 
151-proof rum, and put it in his pocket.
He figured he'd probably be safest on the convention floor, where he could hide 
behind the rest of his delegation.

2:00 P.M.
Gregg phoned from Ellen's hospital room. He stroked her hair as the call went 
through, smiling at her pale, drawn face. Ellen tried to smile back and failed. 
She looked lovely and very vulnerable, and he could feel tears starting in his 
eyes, looking at her.
God, I'm sorry, Ellen. I'm very, very sorry.
Someone picked up the phone and he tore his attention away from her. "Cal? 
Hartmann."
"Senator." Redken sounded nervous. Gregg could tell that he didn't want to talk. 
"How's things going?"
The fat s.o.b. If we were there .. Puppetman rose, angry. "That's what I wanted 
to know. I'd expected some action by now, Cal."
That put the man immediately on the defensive. Gregg could damn near see the 
flush on Redken's pimply face as he blustered. He'd be reaching for a candy bar 
in consternation.
"Look, Senator, it isn't so easy." A wrapper snapped in the background. "The 
bottom line on your Russian is that he's dead. Dead a year and a half and fried 
to a crisp. The file is closed according to everyone I've talked to, and no one 
in the justice Department, the CIA, or the FBI seems inclined to open it. I'm 
getting tired of being told I'm nuts or a pain in the ass or stupid."
Gregg could feel his own temper fraying. Redken was stonewalling and making 
excuses, and in the meantime, Tachyon was still here and still kissing up to 
Jackson.
Devaughn was scowling and cursing, and all the political favors had been called 
in just to slow the reversed momentum. Ellen smiled at Gregg quizzically from 
her bed, sleepy from a shot of Demerol; Gregg brushed her hair back from her 
forehead and shrugged back to her. He took a deep breath and returned his 
attention to the phone.
"Video's got the damn pictures, Cal. I know she's a joker, but the images are 
real. Didn't they convince someone to at least start looking? Didn't you get her 
deposition? What about the reporter who made Polyakov here in Atlanta. Doesn't 
anyone believe him?"
"No one can find Video, Senator. That's the problem. A reporter's supposed 
sighting isn't enough. No one's seen Video for several days. Without her, well, 
I don't know how much I can help you."
"That's not good enough," Gregg said flatly. "Not good enough at all."
Cal sighed, just on the verge of insolence. He put something in his mouth, 
chewing noisily. Puppetman stirred. When we get back to Washington, he'll pay 
for this. Gregg pushed the power back down harshly.
"I'm sorry, Senator," Redken was saying again. "I've done all I can do at the 
moment. We'll keep looking for Video. I'll keep following the paper trail, but 
it's damn cold and you know how slow that can be at the best of times. I'll 
hound Peters over at Intelligence and tell him again that his data's screwy. If 
I do get more, I'll make sure the right people jump. But it might be a few days 
before that happens."
Gregg's temper went entirely. "I don't have a goddamn few days, Cal. I may not 
even have this afternoon."
There was no answer to that, just the hiss of the satellite connection and 
Redken's chewing. "Look, get what you can as soon as you can," Gregg said at 
last. "And keep in mind that I'll remember just how well you do." He slammed the 
phone back into the cradle.
"Serious problems?" Ellen asked. She held out her hand to Gregg.
He took it. He let Puppetman lick at the pain that leaked around the edges of 
the Demerol. It seemed to salve his own frustration.
We have to do it ourself, Gregg. There's no other way. It's safe now, with Gimli 
taken care of. Think of it.
Gregg was. And he knew exactly what he needed to do. "Maybe," he said in answer 
to Ellen's question. "Or maybe not as serious as I'd thought. There's other ways 
to deal with the problem. It's time to start using them."
" I'm sorry you and Dr. Tachyon quarreled, Gregg. He's such a nice man, but so 
stubborn."
"Don't worry about it, darling," he said. "Tachyon is just a temporary problem."

4:00 P.M.
It was like being on Mercury: The air-conditioning of the Marriott beat on his 
back as he stepped through the doors. The Atlanta heat started the sweat rolling 
down his face. The sidewalk was crowded with Jackson supporters waving brightred 
JESSE! signs. Just beyond them was the limo. Jackson clasped Tachyon's hand and 
lifted them up over their heads. Tachyon squirmed, dancing on his toes. The 
reverend was so much taller.
A ragged cheer went up, and they headed for the limo, smiling and shaking hands 
as the spectators crowded in around them. Jackson pressed the flesh with 
practiced ease. Tachyon looked at him enviously.
Ackroyd was waiting at the door of the car. "What now?"
"Jesse wants us to talk to the jokers outside the Omni," Tachyon explained. "He 
and I together. His positions on wild card issues are just as strong as 
Hartmann's, if they will only listen ..." He gave a long, deep sigh. "Jay, if 
you have other leads to follow up, there's really no need for you to come 
along." 
Jay shrugged. "Might as well," he said, "can't dance." At least the limo was 
air-conditioned, Tachyon thought gratefully as they drove off.
Jackson's bodyguard, the ace called Straight Arrow, stared implacably across at 
him. Tach began to realize how hopeless, how stupid this was. They were not 
going to listen. Jesse would have a better chance without him. Tension made his 
voice jump as he blurted, "This is not going to work."
"Faith, Doctor," said Jackson.
He was wedged firmly between Jay Ackroyd and the reverend. He looked desperately 
from Jay to Jesse. "They hate me now."
The limo pulled up, and Jackson studied the ranks of silent jokers. "Only some. 
It's not as if you switched your support to Barnett. I'm not that unacceptable, 
am I?"
"Not to me." Tach gave the tall human's arm a squeeze. "And you will convince 
them. I know it."
"Well, help me a little."
"I will do my uttermost best."
Straight Arrow swung open the door of the black limousine, and Jackson and 
Tachyon stepped back out into the heat. The police had driven a wedge into the 
jokers. At the end of that long aisle was a flatbed truck equipped with a sound 
system. The heat was unbelievable, bouncing in waves off the pavement. As he 
watched, Tach saw Arachne's eight legs fold beneath her and she went down with a 
sigh. There was a flurry of movement as her nat daughter dropped down at her 
mother's side, and began fanning the unconscious woman with a folded newspaper.
"How can they hate them so?" Tachyon asked. The lilac eyes were wide with 
misery. "They are pitiful, and so brave. So very brave."
The crowd had noticed them. Uncertainty ran like a shiver through them, then 
large numbers began pushing forward against the lines of police as Jackson 
walked into their midst. Setting his jaw, Tachyon threw back his head, and 
followed. His eyes met Gills'. The joker's thick neck worked, the membranes over 
the gills fluttering. He hacked, and a gob' of thick white mucus hit Tachyon in 
the face. The alien recoiled, then lunged forward, hand outstretched, pleading 
for understanding. But Gills had already turned his back on Tachyon.
He mopped away the spittle, and they moved deeper into the crowd. Up ahead Tach 
could hear the ring of Jesse's voice, but the words eluded him. He was too busy 
scanning the crowd, evaluating the faces of his friends and people. Disinterest, 
outright hatred, sympathy. A shadow fell across him. Turtle. But Tommy flew on.
A huge, pallid figure snapped the linked arms of two policemen. A brick wall 
wasn't going to stop six-hundred pounds of Doughboy. He rolled to a stop before 
the tiny alien. "Doctor."
"Yes, dear." He couldn't bring himself to call the joker "Doughboy."
"They thaid Mith Thara's a twaitor, and now they thay you are too. I don't 
underthand. "
"It's very confusing, child."
"Don't you love the thenator anymore?"
Tach covered his eyes with a hand. "I love all of you better. "
"Funny way of showing it," howled a voice from the crowd.
"Traitor. Traitor! TRAITOR!"
The sound battered at him, and Tach dropped his face into his hands. Suddenly 
Jackson was there, an arm tight about his shoulders.
"Come on. You can do it. We walk through this crowd. We get up on that truck, 
and we speak. It's going to be all right. "
"No, Reverend, I am afraid that some things can never be repaired."
But he had been reminded of his duty, so with a smile firmly in place Tach began 
moving down the line of people. Some of the most unbelievable things were held 
out to him--claws, tentacles, misshapen lumps covered with foulsmelling 
discharge. The sight of a normal human hand was such a relief that Tachyon 
almost ran to grip it.
A young man, dressed in a leather jacket despite the heat, raised heavy lids to 
regard him. Eyes as blank as a shark's.
Jokers clogged the street, silent and horrible. The heat and the light seemed to 
suffocate you, to wrap around your chest like a python, tightening by degrees. 
It reminded Mackie of Hamburg in summertime. He hated anything that reminded him 
of home. He hated the heat and the humidity, and wasn't too crazy about the 
light of day. Most of all he hated jokers.
Nonetheless he was happy. Redemption sang in his veins like a hit of good speed.
Der Mann was giving him another chance. He was Macheath again, slipping through 
the mob with his song bubbling mantric down in his throat.
In this mass of monsters, nothing was remarkable. Particularly Mackie. His lack 
of size let him avoid most contact. The awful heat sent sweat tentacles crawling 
down his ribs inside his jacket and aging T-shirt, but his personal stink was 
lost in the crowd.
Glancing impact, then, "Hey, there, motherfucker!" The hand on his arm was 
feathered. "Watch who you're shoving! Who the fuck you think you are?"
"I'm Mack the Knife, you filthy creature!" Anger swelled like his cock. He 
started to bring a buzz.
No! Remember your job! He snarled something wordless and phased out, leaving the 
monstrosity standing there holding air. The stupid look on what passed for its 
face made him laugh.
Insubstantial, he walked through a maggot clump of horrors pretending to be 
people, found an eddy big enough to phase his skinny body back in. The jokers 
paid him no mind.
A chant had started, low and hostile. The words blurred in his mind. He didn't 
try to understand. Jokers had nothing to say. The beasts didn't even know he was 
walking through them! He was Mackie Messer, he was stone mystery and death. He 
was invincible.
Looming alongside his quarry was the tall nigger running for president-and 
wasn't that capitalist decadence, to let such people hold political office? Karl 
Marx said the black man was a slave, and der alte Karl knew what he was talking 
about. The man hanging tight on Tach's other side struck Mackie somehow 
familiar. Probably one of the alien's toadies from Jokertown.
Tachyon was moving down a line, shaking hands or whatever. The thought of all 
that joker touch made Mackie's skin creep. He circled, like the shark in his 
song, who wears his teeth in his face.
You must be extremely careful, the Man had said. Tachyon is a mind reader. You 
must not let him sense your intention.
Good enough. He was Mack the Knife. He knew how to do these things.
It would be simple to phase through the crowd, approach from behind, buzz his 
hand and jam it right through Doctor precious Tachyon's alien fucking heart. It 
would be too simple.
He'd never done an alien before. Nor had he done anybody really big, really 
famous like Tachyon was.
He wanted to feel Tachyon's eyes in his. He wanted the little bastard to know 
who was killing him.
The jokers surged forward, carrying him right where he needed to go.
The world contracted to Tachyon and the touch.
The afternoon came to Jack in little coherent bursts interspersed with noise and 
pointless movement, like a film cut into pieces and spliced together at random. 
Delegates surged back and forth, vote totals changed by the half hour.
The only two constants were that Hartmann was losing votes and Barnett was 
gaining. Despite denials from Hartmann and Devaughn, everyone assumed that 
Jack's accusation of Barnett had been a last, desperate attempt by Hartmann's 
camp to regain its lost momentum. "Hey," Devaughn finally scowled as reporters 
pressed him. "Give the guy a break. Yesterday somebody stopped his heart-who 
knows how many brain cells he lost?"
Thanks, Charles, Jack thought. Compassionate as always. The only conceivable 
remedy was another swig of overproof.
Jim Wright, calling for vote after vote, looked as if his liver had just failed. 
Fistfights swirled on the floor. The band played whatever came into its 
collective head, anything from Stephen Foster to Jagger-Richards. A Starshine 
glider crashed in front of Jack and he stepped on it by mistake while trying to 
pick it up. He tried to throw the crumpled thing anyway, and it came apart as it 
left his hand.
Fucking flying joker, he thought.
As Jack finished the bottle, a kind of lucidity returned, an intense 
consciousness of the horror of it all. Aw, shit, Jack thought. I've drunk myself 
sober.
No choice, he decided, but to get another bottle. He lurched from his seat and 
headed across the pandemonium toward the nearest exit. As he left the 
auditorium, he saw a young woman with Hartmann buttons talking earnestly to a 
tall black man in hornrims.
"Sorry, Sheila," the man in glasses said. "Your old man's the nicest guy I've 
ever met, and I'm sorry to disappoint him, but if I don't switch to Jesse on 
this vote I can kiss my standing in the neighborhood goodbye."
Some kind of rally was going on right outside the auditorium. There was a 
flatbed truck covered with Jackson banners and a limo trying to get through the 
crowd toward it, the horn bleating. Swarming around everything were more jokers 
than Jack had ever seen in one place.
He tried moving through the crowd, but it was too dense. The people in the limo 
must have decided the same thing, because its doors opened and the passengers 
got out-Straight Arrow in his gray uniform, some little white guy Jack didn't 
recognize, Jesse Jackson, and Tachyon.
Great. Just the people Jack wanted to see.
The crowd roared. Media people jostled jokers to find camera setups. Police and 
Secret Service were trying to wedge their way to the truck without knocking 
anyone off their feet.
Tachyon and the candidate were shaking hands as they progressed. Someone spit in 
Tach's face. Straight Arrow looked appalled, probably not at the saliva but at 
the fact it could as easily have been a bullet.
A shadow passed overhead and Jack looked up. The Turtle moved past in silence. 
Someone had painted HARTMANN! across his shell in big silver letters.
Jack looked down and saw, through a split-second gap in the crowd, the freak 
gliding through the. crowd. The kid with buzz saw hands, just fifteen feet away.
Adrenaline crashed into Jack with the force of a hurricane. "No!" he yelled, and 
began to swim through the crowd with great sweeps of his arms, driving his way 
heedless of yells of protest.
The leather boy had disappeared. Jack craned to find him. Then there he was, 
leaning forward under the arm of a policeman, his hand outstretched. Tachyon saw 
him and smiled.
"No!" Jack yelled again, but no one could hear him. Tachyon took the hand.
Tachyon took his hand with something like relief. He clamped down hard.
"I'm Mackie Messer," he said, and laid on maximum buzz.
There was a shower of blood and bone and the buzzsaw sound that Jack remembered 
all too well. Tachyon screamed. So did a hundred other people. So, maybe, did 
Jack.
Jack charged forward, but the crowd was surging back, and he stumbled, almost 
fell, as people went down around him. A silver-eyed joker child was clutching 
his leg. Jack tried to shake the boy off, yelling in fury.
Tachyon staggered back, blood pulsing from his torn wrist. Straight Arrow had 
been watching the crowd around Jackson and was only now turning his head to 
comprehend the situation. The policeman under whose arm the leather boy had 
reached was the only one near enough to react. Half the cop's face was dripping 
with Tachyon's blood, and his actions were slowed by shock. He tried to grab the 
boy's leather jacket. If he'd had time to think, he'd have done almost anything 
but that.
The leather boy turned to face the cop and Jack's heart jumped into his throat. 
All the kid had to do was glance past the policeman and see Jack heading for 
him. But the freak didn't notice Jack-he was too busy smiling up at the cop, his 
tongue enjoying the taste of Takisian blood on his lower lip. He sliced off the 
cop's right arm at the shoulder.
The kid turned back to Tachyon, away from Jack. Jack shook off the joker kid and 
ran, his arm cocking back, his hand making a fist. If the kid was going to 
finish off Tach, he'd have to remain material, and Jack could hit him with all 
the force of a cannon.
The leather boy reached toward Tachyon. His hand movement was gentle, almost a 
caress. One more step and Jack was going to knock the hunchback's head about 
twenty blocks.
Jack let the punch go, and the freak disappeared with a pop! The punch spun him 
around as Jack screamed in rage. Tachyon's blood slipped under his feet but 
somehow he managed to stay upright.
"Who did that!" he shrieked.
Straight Arrow was standing there, a flaming arrow raised high in one hand, like 
a statue of Zeus throwing a thunderbolt. The Secret Service had knocked Jackson 
down and had piled on him. A lot of guns were out.
"Ackroyd," Straight Arrow said. The flame disappeared from his fingertips.
The crowd moaned as if in pain. Men with television cameras circled the police 
cordon, trying to get a better look. The eyes of the nation were sopping it all 
up.
Tachyon's eyes fluttered and he fell to the pavement. The cop was screaming. 
Jack could see that his wound was too high to tourniquet. Jack stepped up to 
him, drew back his fist, hit him gently on the temple. The policeman's head 
bounced like a punching bag and he went unconscious.
Straight Arrow stepped next to Jack. His shocked face was pale. He reached out a 
hand to the policeman's wounded shoulder. Flame pulsed hotly. Blood hissed, 
boiling away, as he cauterized the wound. The smell of burning flesh eddied up, 
and from Jack's layered memories came the screams of a man burning to death in a 
flaming tank somewhere under Cassino.
Maybe the cop's life could be saved if the man didn't die of shock in the next 
five minutes. Jack followed, feeling helpless, as Straight Arrow moved to 
Tachyon's side and picked up the wounded arm. Tachyon's face and rules were 
covered with blood. There were things grinding under Jack's feet that he didn't 
want to think about.
Straight Arrow cauterized Tach's wound with the same efficient pulse of flame 
he'd used on the cop. Jack turned away, not wanting to have to listen to the 
hiss of blood, smell the burning meat. He reached for his cigarettes. Rage 
danced through his nerves. He'd had the kid, would have crushed his murderous 
little head like an eggshell.
Jesse Jackson was getting to his feet. From his bewildered expression it was 
clear he hadn't seen a thing. Secret Service were trying to call for ambulances 
on their radios.
"Ackroyd." Straight Arrow rose from his crouch. "Where did you send him?"
Ackroyd was the nondescript-looking man Jack had seen leave the limousine with 
Tach and Jackson. He seemed as much in shock as anyone else.
"Yeah," he said. "Oh, Jesus." His hands wandered over his own body as if he had 
an itch he couldn't locate.
"You!" Jack roared. "Who the hell are you?" Ackroyd looked at him 
uncomprehendingly.
"Jay Ackroyd," Straight Arrow said. "Private cop. They call him Popinjay."
"I had the bastard!" Jack shook his fist in rage, crushing his pack of 
cigarettes. "I could have turned him into JELL-0! Aw, fuck!" He threw down the 
pack of cigarettes and kicked it into the crowd.
"Where'd you send him, Ackroyd?"
"Popped him," Ackroyd said.
Straight Arrow grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. "Where'd you send the 
assassin?"
"Oh." Ackroyd licked his lips. "New York. The tombs." Straight Arrow took his 
hands off the detective and straightened in satisfaction. "Good," he said.
Jack wanted to knock Ackroyd into the next country. "He walks through walls!" he 
yelled. "He's out by now!" Straight Arrow's face fell.
Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance. Jack looked around the scene, the two 
wounded men, Jackson kneeling by Tachyon, the Secret Service with their guns 
out, the crowd wailing and moaning in shock, TV cameras taking it all in ... 
He'd lost again, Jack realized. Another tragedy he couldn't stop. Everything was 
slipping through his fingers.
And no one was going to profit from any of this besides Leo Barnett.
He was in a room surrounded by big niggers and bars. For a moment Mackie thought 
he was dreaming. Then he became aware of the hot gobbets of alien meat clinging 
like melted plastic to his face and the front of his jacket.
His right hand held air. His left was stiffened into a blade, vibrating, ready 
to take Dr. Tachyon's head off his shoulder. But he was no longer in the 
brightness of the Atlanta street and there was no Tachyon.
"Nein!" he screamed, slamming the heels of his hands against his forehead. 
"Nein, nein, nein!"
He had failed again. It wasn't possible. But he had failed. A hand clamped his 
shoulder. Nausea tsunami crashed from one side of his stomach to the other as he 
turned to find himself staring up at a gigantic black with a hairless dome of 
head and a gold ring in his ear.
"Hey, man," the giant said in a mild voice, "how fuck you get in here?"
Mackie screamed again, this time making no attempt at words. He made his hands 
do things, then, and.then it was other people who were screaming, and when the 
screaming stopped he ran straight through the bars of the holding cell, down 
green echoing corridors that reeked of puke and sweat and fear, and downstairs 
and out into the grimy sunlight of New York.
He had to get back to Atlanta at once. To redeem himself in the eyes of his 
master, his love.

5:00 P.M.
The first thing Gregg did was shake Jesse's hand. Puppetman raced outward from 
the touch, opening the man's mind eagerly. It was an exquisite mind, one that 
felt things deeply. That was, after all, the best kind. There was a wash of deep 
orange-red there now, a memory of something very painful and horrible. Gregg 
knew what that would be.
Jackson hadn't changed his jacket; it was still spattered from Tachyon's blood. 
The sight of it made Gregg uneasy, a fluttering of guilt returning that made 
Puppetman mock him, inside.
"Reverend, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice and after such a 
horrible afternoon. How ... how is Dr. Tachyon?"
"Clinging to life. In critical condition. The doctors say there was too much 
damage to reattach the hand." Jackson's long, dark face frowned. "A terrible 
event, Senator. A very terrible event. I have not seen such cold, sick violence 
since the Reverend King was assassinated."
Puppetman watched Jackson's emotions carefully. There was horror and fear, and 
revulsion, but none of it was directed toward Gregg. Which told him that Tachyon 
was still remaining silent about Puppetman.
Good. Then it doesn't matter-yet-that Mackie didn't finish the job.
There was only a faint yellow ochre of distaste inside Jackson directed at 
Gregg, and Puppetman easily pushed that back down, scrubbing it with the respect 
he knew Jackson had for Gregg's stand on common issues.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Reverend," he said. "Please, take a seat. I've told my 
aide to contact your staff and have a change of clothes sent over. Would you 
like anything to drink?"
Jackson declined with a wave of his hand and took a chair; Gregg sat on the 
couch opposite him. He steepled his hands in front of his face as if trying to 
decide what to say.
"This isn't a time I'd choose to say any of this," Gregg said at last. "Not 
after this afternoon. But maybe this is the best time. We need to end the 
violence here. We need to unify the convention and start to work on the real 
campaign against Bush."
"I know what you're going to say, Senator. You should know that my staff wants 
me to say 'no.'" Jackson seemed easy and comfortable despite the trauma of the 
afternoon. He sat crosslegged, his big hands cupped around a knee. The dark 
stains on his jacket made the image eerily surreal. Outwardly, he was cool, 
collected, almost indifferent.
Puppetman knew better. Inside the man was suddenly eager. He could see it; 
bright, electric blue, flashing like lightning. "They want me to say `no' 
because they're convinced that with Dr. Tachyon's support, our Rainbow Coalition 
stands to win here," he continued. "No half-victories, Senator, but everything."
"I've had a friendship of nearly twenty years' standing with Dr. Tachyon," Gregg 
said. "He's a prideful and very stubborn man. The truth is that you and I are 
only taking votes away from each other and allowing Barnett to win. The truth is 
that if the presidential candidate isn't me, it also won't be you. I think we 
both know that, no matter what we'd like to believe. If I don't win here, Leo 
Barnett will be the candidate. The attack on Tachyon today has only strengthened 
his position."
Puppetman could feel Jackson's irritation with that. It was no secret that the 
two ministers didn't care for each other. Jackson was an idealist, on the far 
left fringes of the party as Barnett was to the right. Gregg let Puppetman 
caress that irritation until Jackson visibly scowled.
"Reverend, you don't know why Tachyon came to you," Gregg went on. "My staff 
wanted to release this to the press after Tachyon withdrew his support, but I 
didn't let them, in deference to those twenty years of friendship. Tachy ... 
well, there's no graceful way to put this. In the last few days, the doctor has 
become involved in a relationship with Barnett's campaign manager, Fleur van 
Renssaeler. I don't know whether she seduced him or he her-it doesn't matter, I 
suppose. But when I confronted him with it, he exploded. Said the relationship 
was none of my business. I insisted that indeed it spas--understandably, I 
think-and pressed harder." Gregg made a sour, chagrined face. "I probably said 
some things I shouldn't have said. Our argument was bitter and harsh. He walked 
out. The next I heard of him, he was making the announcement that he was 
withdrawing his support."
Gregg smiled sadly. "I can understand why he would turn to you, Reverend. We 
have our differences, but I think someone looking at our records and our public 
stands would find us very similar. We're both against prejudice and hatred of 
any kind; we'd both like to see all sides coming together to work in harmony. 
We've worked together on the platform fight; I know our ideals are the same."
In Jackson's mind, Puppetman pushed here, pulled there. "That sounds like one of 
your campaign speeches, Senator." There was a faint smile on his face. "I've 
heard the rhetoric before."
"And rhetoric is cheap. I know. I also know that if you look at my voting 
record, if you look at what I've done as chairman of SCARE, at how I've reacted 
to any joker or civil rights legislation, then you'll see that we're not very 
far apart. I think we could work together well."
"Which brings us back to that question you haven't asked me yet, Senator."
He's very interested, even without me. Feel it? Taste it? "You know what I'm 
offering." Gregg said it as a fact, not a question.
"You're offering the vice presidency," Jackson said, nodding. "You're saying 
`Reverend Jackson, why don't you tell your delegates to vote for the 
Hartmann/Jackson ticket?' With my delegates and yours, we might win the 
nomination."
"With your voice, with your strength, with your power, we"-Gregg paused, 
stressing the word-"we win not just the nomination, we win the presidency."
Desire was bright, bright blue. Mottling it underneath were dark splotches of 
doubt. Puppetman scraped the darkness away, made them fade into nothingness. 
Jesse pursued his lips. "I could make the same offer to you, Senator ..." he 
began, but Puppetman was still prodding, still working on his mind.
Jackson's voice faded. He nodded.
He held out his hand.
"All right, Senator," he said as they shook. "You're right. It's time to build a 
bridge we can walk over. It's time to begin to bring all of us together."
Puppetman shouted in triumph. Gregg laughed helplessly.
He had it. This time he would have it. A little maneuvering yet to do, and it 
would be his.
The overproof rum hit Jack's stomach like a wave of welcome flame. He took 
another couple swallows, then capped the bottle and stuffed it in a pocket. He'd 
bought it after Tachyon had been carried off to the hospital and the Secret 
Service let him go.
There was still blood on his cuffs and shoes. He was trying not to think about 
how it got there, and he figured the overproof would help.
He stepped up to one of the back doors of the Omni. Aw, hell, he thought. There 
was the big guard with the broken nose, Connally. Connally was already shaking 
his head, refusing admittance to a gray-haired man who was waving a pass in his 
face. Jack could almost recite the dialogue along with Connally and the 
delegate.
"Sorry. Nobody gets in this way."
"But I just left through this door. You saw me."
"Nobody gets in this way."
"Officer, I'm merely going to collect my daughter, who is a delegate. I do have 
a pass."
A chill finger caressed Jack's neck at the sound of the man's voice. He stopped, 
about ten feet behind the man, and stared at the back of his gray head. Where 
had he heard this before?
"Well," Connally said slowly. "I suppose it won't make that much difference. 
Even though nobody's supposed to come through here."
"It'll be okay," said the man.
Shaking his head, as if he didn't realize why he was doing this, Connally 
reached for his belt, produced a bunch of keys on a chain, and opened the door.
Surprise danced through Jack's head.
"Thank you, officer. That's very kind." The man stepped through the door.
Jack moved forward. Something here wasn't right. "Excuse me," he said.
Connally glared at him. "Where do you think you're going, asshole?"
Jack forced a smile. "I'm a delegate."
Connally closed the door and firmly locked it. "Nobody gets through this door. 
That's my instructions."
Jack peered through the glass door at the gray-headed man's retreating form. 
"You just let him through," he said. Connally shrugged. "What if I did?"
"He's not even a delegate! I'm a delegate!"
Connally looked at him. "He's not an asshole. You are." As Jack stared through 
the glass door he saw the grayhaired man glance back, a short take over his 
shoulder, his hand raised to give Connally a friendly wave. The man saw Jack, 
and the bearded face turned to stone before the man dropped his arm and headed 
on his way.
Jack's hackles rose. He'd seen that face recently, on the cover of Time magazine 
after an actor named josh Davidson had done King Lear in Central Park.
More importantly, he'd seen that look before.
He remembered a bunch of dock workers dancing on a table, singing "Rum and 
Coca-Cola."
Sorry, Sheila, he remembered, your old man's the nicest guy I've ever met.
He knew Davidson's look, Jack thought again. He'd seen it once before, back in 
'50, when he'd walked out of the committee room after testifying before HUAC and 
walked right past where Earl and David and Blythe and Mr. Holmes were waiting, 
walked right past them without saying a word. Suddenly Jack was running, dashing 
past the surprised Connally toward one of the doors he could use.
Josh Davidson, Jack knew, was a secret ace.
As Jack ran for the doors, the bottle of overproof slipped out of his pocket and 
smashed on the concrete. He didn't slow down.
So far as anyone knew, Jack was the only one of the Four Aces left alive. No one 
knew for sure, because one of the four was missing.
After serving three years on the island of Alcatraz for contempt of Congress, 
David Harstein had walked off the boat in 1953. A year later Congress passed the 
Special Conscription Act, and Harstein had been drafted. He never reported. No 
one had seen him since. There were rumors that he'd died, been murdered, 
defected to Moscow, changed his name and moved to Israel.
There hadn't been a single rumor to the effect that he'd had some plastic 
surgery, done a little weightlifting, put on some weight, grown a beard, taken 
voice lessons, and become a Broadway actor.
Your old man's the nicest guy I've ever met. Naturally. No one could dislike 
David Harstein, not once his pheromones got to them. No one could disagree with 
him. No one could avoid doing what he wanted them to do.
Jack waved his ID at the man at the door, then plunged through. He ran through 
the crowd of people in the direction he'd last seen Davidson, ignoring the 
stares of the other delegates. Over the heads of others, he saw Davidson heading 
into one of the tunnels that led to the floor. He followed, caught Davidson's 
arm, said, "Hey."
Davidson spun around, threw off Jack's hand. His eyes were like chips of 
obsidian. "I would rather not talk to you, Mr. Braun. "
Jack started to retreat. He could feel the color draining out of his face. He 
took a grip on his nerves and stepped forward.
"I want to talk to you, Harstein," he said. "We've got almost forty years to 
catch up on."
Harstein took a step backward and clutched at his heart. Jack felt a surge of 
terror: maybe he'd just given the old geezer a heart attack. He reached out to 
hold Harstein upright, but the man coldly knocked Jack's hands away, then turned 
partly. away and leaned on the wall.
"If it be now," he murmured, "'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be 
now; if it be not now, yet it will come."
"Readiness is all," said Jack, completing the quote. He'd played Laertes in high 
school.
Harstein looked sharply at Jack. "All these years, and you discover me. It's 
appropriate somehow."
"If you say so."
"Why are we having a conversation? Unless you mean to blow the whistle on me."
Jack took a long breath. "I'm not blowing the whistle on anybody, David," he 
said.
The actor's face was contemptuous. "An interesting step out of character."
"You're the expert on character."
"I'm the expert on prison, too. I spent three years there."
"I didn't send you to prison, David," Jack said. "They sent you away before I 
ever testified."
"Another interesting distinction." Davidson shrugged. "However, if it serves to 
salve your conscience ..."
Tears stung Jack's eyes. He sagged against the wall. He couldn't use the defense 
he'd used on Hiram. Harstein had been there. He hadn't broken, and that's why 
they'd sent him to prison.
And what had happened to Blythe had been far worse. It was as if Harstein had 
picked the thought out of his head.
"I went to see Blythe right after I got out of prison."
"November 1953. I talked my way past the orderlies. I even went into her cell. I 
told her everything was going to be all right. I told her she was well. She 
wasn't. Three weeks later she was dead."
"I'm sorry," Jack said.
"Sorry." Harstein seemed to taste the word, rolling it about in his mouth. "So 
easy to say, yet having so little effect. We can make our lives sublime and, 
departing, leave behind us footprints in the sands of time." His eyes met 
Jack's. "A wind came up, Jack, and it blew away our footprints." He stared at 
Jack for a long time, an implacable look from which all emotions had been 
leached. "Leave me alone, Jack. I never want to see you again."
David Harstein turned and walked away. Jack slid slowly down the wall, terror 
and remorse shuddering through his body. It was at least five minutes before he 
got control of himself. When he stood up, he had huge sweat stains under his 
arms.
Delegates passing through the tunnel looked at him with pity or disgust, 
assuming he was drunk. They were wrong. He was sober, perfectly sober. He had 
been so terrified he'd burned every ounce of alcohol in his system.
Jack stepped back into the auditorium just asJim Wright announced the latest 
delegate totals. Hartmann's total was going into the sewer.

7:00 P.M.
The hotel concourses were nearly deserted. Most of the people were watching the 
main event over on the convention floor. Spector walked into the snack bar, a 
bottle of Jack Black tucked under his arm. He'd slept most of the day away, had 
to get something to eat. The Marriott restaurants were out of the question; 
after the fight with Golden Boy, there were sure to be people looking for him. 
But he was weak from hunger and had to get something.
He wandered around the aisles of junk food and souvenirs, picking out a couple 
of candy. bars, a can of cashews, some sausage sticks. A young black man was 
behind the register, staring at a small black-and-white television. Spector set 
his stuff on the counter and peeled off a bill.
"Be right with you, mister," said the clerk. "They're supposed to show Tachyon's 
hand exploding after these commercials. Missed it live. Damn, I bet that was 
something to see. Did you catch it?"
"Tachyon's hand blew up? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You been by the pool all day or what?" said the clerk, shaking his head. "Some 
ugly little dude shook the doctor's hand and blew it clean off. They say ... 
Wait a second. Here we go." He turned the television around so Spector could 
see, too.
The video was in slow motion. Tachyon was working the crowd, shaking hands. "Who 
gets him?" Spector asked. "Some little hunchback. See, there he is."
Spector opened his mouth. Shut it. It was the same little twerp who'd been on 
the flight down with him. The hunchback took Tachyon's hand and blood went 
everywhere. The cameraman was jostled by the panicked crowd and the video ended.
"Is he still alive?" Spector had always wanted Tachyon dead, but found himself 
hoping for the best. After all, killing Tachyon was something he planned to do 
himself, someday.
"So far." The clerk turned the television off and rang Spector up. " I guess 
he's tougher than he looks." He sacked the junk food and handed it over with 
Spector's change. "You don't go shaking hands with the devil, mister."
It's a bit too late for that, Spector thought, smiling. He pocketed his change 
and headed back to the room.
"Hey. jack."
"What is it, ese?" "Orders from Devaughn."
"Yeah." Jack spoke without enthusiasm. He was hiding from interviews in the 
middle of what remained of his loyal delegates-the disloyal ones, a third of the 
total, were off caucusing with their new managers.
"After the recess," Rodriguez said, "the Jackson camp is gonna move to suspend 
the rules of the convention in order to let Jesse speak. We're supposed to vote 
in favor."
Jack looked at Rodriguez in surprise. "We can't let a candidate speak. Hell, 
they'll all wanna-"
"News is, Jackson's going to drop out." Rodriguez smiled and tapped his nose. "I 
smell something, jack. Betcha Jackson's cut a deal with the boss. Betcha he's 
gonna be veep." Jack's mind worked through the idea. He hadn't been in charge of 
his own delegation since he'd gone off the balcony on Thursday: it was Rodriguez 
who had been riding herd on California and voting jack's proxy for Hartmann. He 
had to respect Rodriguez's instincts here.
As for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket: why not? It was the same deal that Roosevelt 
and Garner had cut in '32, during the last stalled Democratic convention.
"Our totals and Jesse's," he said. "Are they-?"
"Not enough. Jesse's people are working on Dukakis now. "
"Barnett will have to smell something." Or Fleur, he thought. Fleur had the 
sharper nose.
Maybe, jack thought, it was Fleur who was the secret ace, not Barnett. He 
wondered if Fleur had been in the military. "After this morning," Rodriguez 
being tactful, " there's no approaching them. Someone talked to Fleur 
whatsername: she says No. Doesn't even want to talk about it."
Jack rose to his feet, scowling toward the massive battleship-prow of the podium 
as Jim Wright called the convention to order and announced there would be 
another ballot. The damned vote would take forever: the managers had totally 
lost control of the delegates and each delegation would have to be polled 
man-by-man. The move to suspend the convention rules would come after the vote 
total was announced. And then that would have to be voted on-God, how long could 
this go on?
"Fuck! Fuck!" Rodriguez was shouting into his cellular phone. He slammed the 
thing into its cradle, then looked at jack. "Dukakis will go along with it. He 
hasn't got anything to lose, and maybe he can pick up some of Jackson's 
delegates. But we cant change the rules without Barnett. We need a 
three-quarters vote."
"This sucks, ese."
"Barnett 's going over the top if this Jackson stunt doesn't work." Rodriguez 
took a breath. "Okay. Here's what Devaughn wants. We're gonna start spreading 
the rumor that Jackson is dropping out, that all he wants to do is address the 
convention and make a plea on behalf of his constituency. Nobody's calling the 
shots with his individual delegates anymore. Maybe Barnett's troops won't pay 
attention when he tells them to vote no."
"Maybe."
Rodriguez shrugged. "The whole scheme's a maybe." Jack felt his hands balling by 
his sides. There had to be some way to repair things, some way to repair the 
damage that the assassin aces had done-hell, that Jack had done.
He remembered longshoremen dancing on a countertop. David Harstein, he thought 
wildly. Get Harstein on the platform. Use him to influence the entire convention 
to nominate Hartmann by acclamation.
No. Stupid. Everyone would notice. People watching on TV would wonder how come 
they weren't as enthusiastic as the people at the convention. And the 
air-conditioning might blow Harstein's pheromones away.
Harstein's power was subtle; it had to be used subtly. He could only influence a 
few people at a time.
Maybe, Jack thought, a few important people. Maybe Barnett's campaign manager.
Jack thought of Fleur dancing on tabletops, flinging her underwear into the Omni 
atrium, calling Leo Barnett on the phone to tell him how good Tachyon was in bed 
... Jack gloried in this picture for a moment before the whole thing fell apart.
David Harstein hated his guts. Who was he to make plans for the man?
The hell with that. Harstein wanted Hartmann elected, right? If nothing else, 
Jack could resort to blackmail. He knew Harstein was a secret ace. He could 
threaten to reveal it.
He thought of himself weeping in the tunnel and his stomach turned over.
Jim Wright read Alabama's delegate total. All for Barnett. That decided it. Jack 
was moving, walking from California to New York across the massive front of the 
podium. Harstein was seated in the bleachers watching his daughter address the 
New York delegation. His look was both sad and proud. Jack slapped Harstein on 
the shoulder and pinned him to his seat.
The actor's eyes were veiled, cautious, watching. " I thought we had reached an 
understanding. You leave me alone. I leave you alone."
Jack spoke quickly. "Listen, it's important. In a few minutes there's going to 
be a motion to suspend the rules of the convention in order to let Jackson 
speak. He's going to withdraw and give his support to our man."
"Good for Gregg Hartmann." Scowling. "What's that got to do with me?"
"The vote has to be damn near unanimous. Barnett has enough votes to block us. I 
figure we can talk to Fleur van Renssaeler and make her change her mind."
"We?" The pointed emphasis made Jack want to melt into the ground. "Is this your 
plan? Or have you told Hartmann about me?"
Jack shook his head. He was trying not to cringe. "Nobody knows but me. I won't 
say anything, but you've got to help me."
Harstein rubbed wearily at his forehead. "And you expect me to talk my way into 
Barnett's headquarters and change everybody's mind?" He seemed almost to be 
talking to himself. "What year do you think this is? 1947? This sort of thing 
didn't work then, and it isn't going to work now."
He was right. It was so obvious. How could Jack have been so stupid?
Jack caught himself just on the point of shrugging and walking away. Harstein's 
pheromones had already got Jack agreeing with him. What did he mean, it didn't 
work then?
David had talked Franco right off his throne. Still, when he spoke, he didn't 
sound convincing even to himself.
"If we don't do this, Barnett's going to win. This will all be for nothing." 
Sweat poured down Jack's face. He felt as if his heart was going to explode any 
second. "All we have to do is change one mind. Fleur's."
Davidson looked away, thinking. Jack took a desperate lungful of air, tried to 
calm his trembling limbs.
"I've made a life," Davidson said. "I've got a family. I can't risk them. My 
counterfeit identity won't stand up to thorough investigation." He looked at 
Jack. "I'm an old man. I don't do that sort of thing anymore. Maybe it should 
never have been done."
Surprise sang in Jack's veins. He wants my understanding, he thought.
"You're doing that sort of thing now," Jack said. "You wouldn't be here if you 
weren't trying to influence people."
"Jack, you still don't get it, do you? I can't help but influence people. I 
can't turn my power on or off. That's why I'm not a delegate. That's why I keep 
to myself. What right have I got to replace a man's opinion with mine? Is mine 
necessarily any better than his?" Harstein shook his head.
Jack fought against the ferocious urge to just agree with Harstein and walk 
away. "Our opinions," he said, fighting to get every word out, "are one hell of 
a lot better than the ravings of a man who threatens us. Your daughter-" He 
pointed at her and remembered her name, Sheila. "Sheila has the wild card. 
You've got a full dose, both chromosomes, and even if your wife didn't have the 
virus, you couldn't help but give Sheila a latent. And if she marries someone 
with another latent, their kids could end up with a full wild card."
Harstein said nothing. His eyes traveled to where his daughter stood among the 
other delegates. Sheila was looking back, her face worried. She knew, then, of 
her father's identity, guessed that Jack knew as well.
"Do you know what will happen to them if Barnett becomes president?" Jack went 
on. "They'll be confined to a nice hospital in some remote location, a hospital 
with a razor-wire fence. And you won't have grandchildrenBarnett'll see to 
that."
Harstein turned to Jack. The ice had returned. "Kindly don't mention my 
daughters again. Don't you ever use that line of argument with me. You don't 
give a damn for them, or me."
Harstein fell silent. Looked at his daughters again. Spoke softly. "We have seen 
the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous 
disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves." He looked at Jack. "That was an 
unfair argument. But it convinced me; I will do what I can." He hesitated. "I'm 
a little surprised. I thought you'd threaten to expose me. I'm glad to see I was 
wrong."
That's always an option, Jack thought. But didn't say it. He didn't mind 
developing a reputation for decency for a change.
It took only a minute to walk from the Omni complex to the Omni Hotel next door. 
It was almost ten minutes before Jack and Harstein could get an elevator to 
Barnett's headquarters. A lot of Barnett's people were around: there was a lot 
of staring. Jack ignored them and did a lot of thinking.
Their convention IDs were enough to get them into the hotel, and probably into 
the operations room. Security would be greatest around the candidate, and 
Barnett's room was on another floor. Jack's problem would be staying in the 
operations room long enough to get next to Fleur and let Harstein's pheromones 
do their work.
Harstein's mention of blackmail had set Jack's mind working.
While waiting for the elevator, Jack got some hotel stationary from the front 
desk and penned a note, then wrote Fleur van Renssaeler on the back.
The note said: I need five minutes of your time. If I don't get it, the world 
(and Reverend Barnett) will find out about your sins of the flesh with Tachyon.
He considered signing it Yours in Christ, Jack Braun but decided that might be 
pushing things a little far.
The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped inside, surprising the hell out of 
two Barnett supporters of the little-blue-haired-lady variety. Jack smiled 
politely as he entered and pressed the button for Barnett HQ.
People waiting for the elevators did a lot of double takes as Jack stepped out, 
but nobody stopped him as he headed for the operations center. He walked right 
through the door, past a lot of young women on telephone banks, and failed to 
see any sign of Fleur. He grinned at the nearest worker.
"Where's the boss lady?" he said.
The girl stared. She was maybe seventeen, cute in an unformed blonde way. Her 
glasses slid down her nose. Her name, according to her name tag, was Beverly.
"I--" she said. "You're-"
Harstein bent close to her and said, "Go ahead. You can tell him." He smiled 
reassuringly.
"Ah--"
Harstein's expression was gentle. "It's really all right, Beverly," he said. 
"Mr. Braun's here on business, and I'm just tagging along."
Beverly pointed with a pencil. "I think Miss van Renssaeler is in her office," 
she said. "Two doors down. 718."
"Thank-you."
The room was beginning to buzz with alarm. People were glaring at Jack and 
dialing phones. He smiled at them all reassuringly, gave them a wave, and left. 
Harstein followed.
"I hope it's a small room," Harstein said. "You have no idea what the advent of 
air-conditioning has done to my power. "
Heads poked from the door as Jack strolled to 718 and knocked. He could hear 
televisions, and a phone ringing in the room. The phone cut off, and he heard 
steps coming to the door. It opened.
A silver-haired man stood there, his eyes widening in shock, then narrowing in 
anger. He flushed.
"Yes." Fleur's voice, on the phone. "I guess he's here. Thank you, Veronica."
"You are not welcome here," the silver-haired man said. "I'd like to see Miss 
van Renssaeler," Jack said.
The man tried to slam the door. Jack held it open with his hand. "Please," he 
said.
The door jerked open. Fleur looked at Jack from over the rims of square-cut 
reading glasses. Her mouth was a grim slash. Two other men stood behind her, in 
various uneasy postures. Televisions turned to various networks babbled along 
one wall.
"I don't think we have anything to talk about, Mr. Braun," she said.
"We do," Jack said. "I'd like to apologize, for a start."
"Fine, you've done that," Fleur said. She started to close the door.
"I'd like to speak to you for just a few moments."
"I'm busy. You may write for an appointment, after the convention." The door 
closed to a few inches, and again Jack stopped it. )ack produced the envelope 
from his pocket.
"Okay," he said. "Here's my appointment request. I'd like you to read it now."
He lightly tossed the envelope inside and let Fleur close the door. He looked 
down the corridor to see two security men walking toward him, doubtless summoned 
by the phone ladies. Their expressions, in the face of a man who used to throw 
Russian tanks off Korean mountainsides, lacked confidence.
"Uh," the nearest one said.
Jack grinned at them. "No problem, officers. I'll be leaving as soon as Miss van 
Renssaeler gives me an appoint_ ment."
Thev looked at each other, then decided to wait. "We were told there was a 
problem," one of them said. "Problem? No problem."
The guards did not seem reassured.
The door opened. "Five minutes," said Fleur. "And that's all you get." She 
turned to the men in the suite with her. "Reverend Pickens, Mr. Smart, Mr. 
Johnson, I hope you'll excuse me. Something's come up."
The men filed out past Jack, offering mixed distrust and relief. Jack stepped 
into the room, and Harstein followed. "Who's this man?" Fleur said. "I didn't 
agree to see him."
"Josh Davidson, madam." Harstein gave a stage bow, sweeping low.
"He's an old friend of the family. He's with me."
"He can wait outside."
"Madam, I will not interfere in your business," Harstein said. "An old fellow 
like me finds it hard to wait in cold air-conditioned corridors. I won't be any 
harm. Have I not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a 
decreasing leg, an increasing belly? I'm an object of pity. Pray do not scorn 
and cast me out."
Fleur looked at him. The corners of her mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"This is against my better judgment," she said, "but you can stay."
Fortunately, her better judgment did not prevail.

9:00 P.M.
The Jackson motion came up, was seconded, passed overwhelmingly. Harstein kissed 
Fleur's hand goodbye, and he and Jack made their way to the elevators.
"We may have just made a president," Jack said. He felt pleasantly drunk, as if 
on champagne.
Harstein just kept walking for the elevator. "Hey. We won."
"Things without all remedy should be without regard," said Harstein. "What's 
done is done." He looked at Jack. "And so, too, are we done. Never speak to me 
again, Jack, never come near me or my family. I'm warning you."
Jack's blood turned chill. "Whatever you say," he said. He let Harstein take the 
first elevator by himself.
Sara had the proper plastic smile molded into her face when he stepped off the 
People Mover with his shiny new travel bag slung over the shoulder of his 
leisure suit. She looped her arms around his neck and hugged him with a fervor 
that surprised her.
"Uncle George!" she squealed. "Oh, it's so good to see you!"
Polyakov hugged her and patted her shoulder. "Not so shrill, child. Eardrums are 
brittle things at my age. Why didn't you meet me at the gate?" He took her arm 
and steered her into the traffic streaming toward the escalators that led to the 
baggage carousels.
"They're not letting anybody but passengers with tickets into the boarding area. 
Are you sure it's safe to just come in openly like this?"
Smiling, to all appearance chattering happily to the elderly relative she'd just 
been reunited with, she nodded toward the security checkpoint where the 
passengers were filing through the metal detectors like cows through the chute 
for their appointment with the hammer. A pair of young men stood to one side, 
eyeing the crowd as discreetly as anybody that beefy could. Their suits were 
dark, and tight under the left armpits. A little fleshtone wire trailed from 
each man's ear.
He smiled. "They're looking for dangerous Russian spies trying to get out of 
Atlanta, not back in."
"But the airport-"
"I could have taken a bus, I grant, especially since the good doctor's friend 
happened to transport me to the Port Authority in New York City." At the mention 
of Tachyon,
Sara's face twisted briefly, as if she'd stepped on a tack. "But that would have 
been too slow, and anyway they're doubtless watching the bus terminals as well. 
Also, I detest buses."
They were on the moving stair now. "You heard what happened?" Sara asked.
"It was all over the televisions that infest the passenger waiting areas in 
LaGuardia-how lonely your capitalist lives must be, that you use your enormous 
production to surround yourselves so completely with synthetic company. An ace 
assassin making an attempt on the life of a potential presidential nominee, 
especially one as controversial and ethnic as Jackson-it's all raised quite the 
sensation."
That was how the police and media saw it, of course: the hunchbacked kid in 
leather had been trying to hit Jackson, and Dr. Tachyon had gotten in the way.
"How is it with Tachyon?" the Soviet asked.
She stumbled a little coming off the escalator. The hand that had caressed her, 
touched her last night as so few men had, was cooked meat and splintered bone 
now. The way that made her feel--the way it made her feel was something she 
would not confront now. Nothing matters, she told herself, but staying alive 
long enough to see Andi avenged.
"The doctor," he prodded gently, "how is he?"
"He's in what they call stable condition. They had to amputate, but he's 
recovering well. They have him in some hospital, the media aren't saying which 
one. The police have tied his assailant to Ricky's murder, and the fight with 
Jack Braun Thursday night. They know he can walk through walls. Lieutenant 
Herlihy has finally had to bite the bullet and admit he's got an ace killer on 
the loose. Not just a killer but a political assassin, and he's stalking the 
convention."
She didn't try to keep the bitter satisfaction from her voice. If only the 
police had listened to nie, she thought, though what they could have done even 
if they had was none too clear. At least it would have meant somebody thought 
she was more than a hysterical woman who'd been spurned by her love object.
Somebody other than the man who called himself George Steele.
They walked toward the sliding robot doors to the humid outside. Sara had a car 
in the lot that she'd rented under an assumed name-now, of course, Atlanta's 
finest were falling all over themselves with eagerness to talk to her. Even if 
she'd had anything more to say to them, she had no illusions about their ability 
to protect her from that pale-eyed youth who hummed as he killed.
Polyakov shook his head. "The bad times are coming for wild cards in this 
country. Whatever we do here, that is true, I'm afraid. But it makes it that 
much more imperative we stop the madman Hartmann. You might have to take a more 
active role."
She stopped dead in the middle of the doors, which spasmed open and shut in 
mechanical frenzy. "No! I've already told you. I can't do that."
He took her by the arm and urged her out to the sidewalk. Diesel fumes and 
cabbies assailed them. They ignored both.
"Someone has to. Tachyon may not be able."
"Why not you? You're a killer ace, too. Why not use your power?"
He glanced around without moving his head. No one was nearby. "My. Our goal is 
to prevent World War III. How well would that end be served if an American 
presidential candidate was killed by a KGB ace?"
That was his goal. She turned and darted across the street, avoiding being run 
down more by luck than by design. He followed more cautiously.
He was puffing slightly when he caught up in the shortterm parking. "It was 
clever of you to check your answering machine."
He was trying to gentle her like he would a frightened animal. She didn't care. 
"Clever of you to leave a message saying where you were coming in and when." She 
opened the driver's door of the rose-gray rental Corolla and slid in.
"That's my business," he said as she leaned across to unlock his door. He opened 
the rear door and put his bag in back. "I'm a professional spy. I'm paid to 
think of such things."
"Being a spy is not so much different from being a journalist," she said. "Just 
ask General Westmoreland." She turned the key with a savage twist and started 
the car.
"My right and my privilege to stand here," said Jesse Jackson, "has been won-won 
in my lifetime-by the blood and the sweat of the innocent."
From Jack's point of view, the candidate's figure was tiny, dwarfed by the 
massive white podium, but his ringing orator's voice filled the air. Jack heard 
the restless delegates grow hushed, expectant. Everyone, whether they liked 
Jackson or not, knew this was going to be important.
"I stand as a testament to the struggles of those who have gone before; as a 
legacy for those who will come after; as a tribute to the endurance, the 
patience, the courage of our forefathers and mothers; as an assurance that their 
prayers are being answered, their work has not been in vain, and hope is eternal 
. ."
Those who have gone before. Jack thought about Earl, standing in his aviator's 
jacket on that platform, his baritone voice rolling out of the speakers. It 
should have been Earl there, he thought, and years ago.
"America is not one blanket, woven from one thread, one color, one cloth. When I 
was a child growing up in Greenville, South Carolina, and grandmama could not 
afford a blanket, she didn't complain, and we didn't freeze. Instead she took 
pieces of old cloth-patches-wool, silk, gaberdeen, crocker-sack-only patches, 
barely good enough to wipe off your shoes with. But they didn't stay that way 
very long. With sturdy hands and a strong cord, she sewed them together into a 
quilt, a thing of beauty and power and culture. Now, Democrats, we must build 
such a quilt."
"Farmers, you seek fair prices, and you are right-but you cannot stand alone, 
your patch isn't big enough. Workers, you fight for fair wages, you are 
right-but your patch of labor is not big enough. Jokers, you seek fair 
treatment, civil rights, a medical system sensitive to your needs-but your patch 
is not big enough ..."
Years ago, in voice and diction lessons courtesy of Louis B. Mayer, Jack had 
learned the tricks of the rhetorician. He knew why preachers like Jackson and 
Barnett used those long cadences, those rhythmic, crafted emphases ... Jack knew 
that the long sentences, the rhythms, could put the audience into a mild 
hypnotic trance, could make them more susceptible to the preacher's message. 
What if it had been Barnett standing here? Jack wondered. What message would be 
rolling forth in those glittering images, those seductive rhythms?
"Don't despair!" Jackson shouted. "Be as wise as my grandmama. Pull the patches 
and pieces together, bound by a common thread. When we form a great quilt of 
unity and common ground, we'll have the power to bring about health care and 
housing and jobs and education, and hope ."
"When I look out at this convention, I see the face of America: red, yellow, 
brown, black, and white. The real patchwork quilt that is our nation. The 
rainbow coalition. But we have not yet come together; no strong hand has yet 
bound us together with a strong cord. I address you tonight to tell you the name 
of the man who will unite our patches into something that will keep America from 
turning cold in this long, freezing night of Reaganomics ..."
There was a murmur among the delegates. Not all, including Jackson's own 
followers, had been told this was a resignation speech. Some of them had just 
gotten their first clue.
"His foreparents came to America on immigrant ships," Jackson said. "A friend of 
mine, desperately wounded this afternoon as he stood beside me, came to this 
planet on a space ship. Mine came to America on slave ships. But whatever the 
original ships, we are in the same boat tonight."
From quilts, then, to boats. There was applause, whistles, a constant murmur. A 
woman was on her feet in the Illinois delegation: "No, Jesse!"
"This convention has been threatening to sink the boat," Jackson continued. "We 
have been running from one end of the boat to the other, from the progressive 
end to the conservative end, from the right side of the boat to the left side, 
and the boat may turn over-and Democrats, we may sink. It is time, therefore, to 
give the rudder to someone who can steer it safely to harbor. Tonight I salute 
this man-he has run a well-managed and a dignified campaign."
"No matter how tired or how tried, he always resisted the temptation to stoop to 
demagoguery. I have watched a good mind fast at work, with steel nerves, guiding 
his campaign out of the crowded field without appeal to the worst in us."
"I have watched his perspective grow as his environment has expanded. I've seen 
his toughness and tenacity, knew his commitment to public service."
Jackson paused, his intent eyes searching the convention, his hands grasping the 
platform. Wondering, maybe, what his new role as Kingmaker Jesse might bring.
"I urge the convention to unite behind this man, this new captain. I urge 
everyone here, all the delegates, my own not excepted, to vote for a new captain 
before our boat turns over and we sink for another four years. The name of the 
captain-" Silence. Jack could hear his own heart beating. "Senator!" Jackson 
said.
Jack looked at Rodriguez in the next seat. "Gregg!" he said, in unison with 
Jackson.
Rodriguez looked back. There was wild joy in his eyes. "Hartmann!" he roared, 
along with Jack and Jesse and the crowd; and suddenly everyone went mad.
Mad for Gregg Hartmann.
Spector sat on the carpeted floor in front of the television. He had the volume 
turned way down; nobody was supposed to be in 1019, and he didn't want people 
snooping around this room, too. He'd bought a can of cashews and a pint of 
whiskey downstairs and had put away most of both during the balloting. He'd 
hoped that Hartmann would lose. A candidate who'd washed out wasn't likely to 
have the same kind of tight security as the nominee. As usual, things had gone 
all wrong.
The delegates were chanting, "Hartmann, Hartmann, Hartmann," until the name 
itself pissed him off. Jesse Jackson had pulled out of the race for some reason. 
All the commentators were talking about some kind of behind-the-scenes deal. In 
any case, Hartmann had gone over the top on the next ballot. Signs for each 
state were waving back and forth. There were balloons, confetti, and endless 
boring speeches.
Golden Boy was still alive. That made Spector even more nervous than he'd been 
before. Braun got a good enough look at him for an ID. The Judas Ace had looked 
plastered or sick when the TV cameras had shown him. Spector sighed. Usually 
when he killed them, they stayed dead.
Tomorrow he'd concentrate on finding a way to get at Hartmann. Right now, he 
didn't have the first idea how he'd go about it, but the senator wasn't leaving 
Atlanta alive. Of course, Spector might not either. He didn't bother trying to 
tell himself that there were some things worse than death. He knew better.
If he could find someone to help him, someone powerful, he might actually walk 
away in one piece. And he knew one person who might be inclined to help. It was 
a big risk, but what the fuck.
He turned off the TV, curled up into a ball around the almost empty bottle, and 
tried to get to sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Sunday July 24, 1988
7:00 A.M.
With one cheap towel wrapped around her dripping body from breasts to thighs and 
another wound around her hair, Sara emerged from the bathroom in a breath of 
steam. Motion was effort; she had rigor mortis to the depths of her soul.
"We can't rely on Tachyon anymore." She forced her words out like lumps of 
plasticine through a window screen. They weren't a question.
The man who called himself George Steele sat on the bed in trousers and 
undershirt, looking down at the backs of his hands. They were hairy, like his 
shoulders. He raised his head. "We cannot."
"You know the plan we discussed earlier?" His eyes narrowed. "Yes."
"I'll do it." She turned and went back into the bathroom to dry her hair.

9:00 A.M.
Hospitals were tasty and Puppetman was getting hungry. Gregg leaned away from 
the Compaq Portable III and rubbed his eyes. He typed a quick message: Tony, I'm 
taking a break. The speech looks good, and I'm sending my last edit.
I'll leave the computer on and pick up the draft when I get back. Thanks.
He sent the file via modem to Calderone's portable and rubbed his eyes.
"Tired, love?" Ellen smiled at him from her hospital bed, half-asleep herself "I 
think the next president of the United States ought to get some sleep. You had a 
long night last night, and Jack tells me you and Jesse stayed up till all hours 
planning the campaign."
"It was a glorious night, Ellen. Jesse's speech was a wonder. I'm sorry you 
weren't there. None of it was possible without you."
She smiled at that, tinged with sadness. She was still pale, her skin almost 
translucent, and her eyes were puffy and dark. The death of their child had 
marked her more permanently than he had thought possible. "I'm coming to hear 
your speech tonight. Nothing could stop me. Kiss me, next president of the 
United States."
"Picked up on that phrase, have we?"
"After last night's roll call? `The great state of New York casts all its votes 
for the next president of the United States: Gregg Hartmann!' How many states 
are there?" She held her arms out.
Gregg leaned over the bed and kissed her softly on the lips. Puppetman nudged at 
him. Give her to me.
No. Leave her alone. We've put her through enough. Getting sentimental, are we? 
The power mocked him, but didn't seem inclined to argue. Then let's go 
elsewhere. I'm hungry.
Gregg hugged Ellen. "Listen," he said. "I'm going to take a short walk. Thought 
I might see some of the patients, shake a few hands."
"Campaigning already," Ellen gave a mock sigh. "Mr. 
Next-President-of-the-United-States."
"Get used to it, love."
"You'll get tired of handshaking before it's all over, Gregg."
He gave her a strange grin. "I doubt it," he said. Inside, Puppetman echoed him.

11:00 A.M.
Spector woke up groggy. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and he hurt all 
over. All his stuff was at the motel, so he couldn't shave or brush his teeth. 
He'd have to stop by there and clean up before making his visit. He sat on the 
corner of the bed and rubbed the grit from his eyes.
He picked up the phone book and thumbed through until he came to hospitals. He 
found the one Tony was in, hesitated for a moment, then punched in the numbers.
"Tony Calderone, please," he said to the switchboard operator. It rang several 
times before being answered. "Calderone. "
"Uh, yeah. This is Jim. I wanted to explain about the other day."
"Right. Colin said you were up in my room. Hope you didn't get mugged again." 
Tony sounded glad to hear from him.
" Nothing like that. Got sidetracked with business is all." Spector wanted to 
tell him everything, but knew Tony wouldn't believe it. He was too committed. "I 
just wanted you to know I was all right."
"Yeah, I was a little worried. Got the speech done. Best thing I ever wrote. 
Hope you get a chance to catch it." Tony paused. "You sure nothing's wrong?"
"Nothing getting back to Jersey won't cure." Spector twisted the phone cord. "It 
was really great seeing you again. I mean that."
"We'll do it again sooner than you think. In Washington." Tony sounded 
completely confident.
"Right." Spector knew that by the end of the day Tony would hate his guts 
forever. So much for his one friend. But he knew he couldn't walk away now. 
"Look, I have to get moving. Still got a thing or two to take care of before I 
go."
"Okay. Well, after things get settled you give me a call. In the meantime, look 
after yourself."
"So long." Spector set the phone lightly in its cradle. He couldn't let this 
sentimental crap take away his edge. He was going to need it.
Spector put the whiskey bottle in his coat pocket, he gave the room a slow look 
before leaving. He knew he wouldn't be coming back.
12:00 NOON
Jack hadn't found Blaise on any of his intermittent searches, and he decided it 
was time to head for the hospital and tell Tachyon that Blaise was gone.
Hell. The kid would probably be right by his grandad's bedside.
Hartmann supporters were wandering about the Marriott lobby in various attitudes 
of inebriation or exhaustion. Yellow warning tape fluttered around the hole that 
Jack had driven into the floor. Jack saw the pert waitress he'd noticed before 
and gave her a wink. She grinned at him. He was sufficiently preoccupied with 
notions concerning the waitress that he didn't see Hiram until he almost tripped 
over the huge suitcase-almost a trunk-that the man had set next to him.
Hiram seemed as surprised as Jack. The big man's eyes were wide in alarm. Maybe 
the suitcase contained something valuable.
Hiram had a man with him, a thin joker with a little mustache and webs of skin 
over hollow eye sockets.
"Oh. Sorry." Jack stepped around the suitcase. He looked up at Hiram.
"Won't you be staying for the acceptance speech?"
"Ah. No. I've-uh-stayed longer in Atlanta than I meant to, anyway." Hiram's eyes 
gazed at Jack out of bruised sockets. He was a mess: his hair awry, his collar 
open to reveal the sore on his neck. Maybe he'd slept in his suit. He took 
Jack's arm and led him away, out of earshot of the thin joker. "Actually, I've 
been wanting to speak to you."
"I'd been hoping to see you, too." Jack ventured a smile. "I wanted to thank you 
for the other day. You maybe saved me from getting hurt, making me light that 
way."
"I'm glad I was able to be of assistance." Hiram glanced over his shoulder at 
the joker and gave a nervous smile. He turned back to Jack. "I wanted to tell 
you something," he said.
His tone sent a little warning signal down Jack's spine. Whatever was coming, 
Jack knew he didn't really want to hear it.
"Sure," he said.
"I wanted to say that I understand now," Hiram said. His voice was leaden. "That 
you were right when you said that you didn't know till you've been tested."
"Oh," said Jack. He didn't want to hear this confession. Whatever Jack was, 
whatever he'd done, he didn't want anyone else's sins rattling around in his own 
head. He had trouble enough coping with his own.
"When I was attacking you the other day," Hiram went on, "I was really attacking 
myself. I was trying to deny my own betrayals."
"Yeah." Jack just wanted Hiram and his soap opera to leave. What kind of 
betrayal could someone like Hiram pull olf, anyway? Buy second-rate cuts of veal 
for his restaurant?
Hiram looked at him, eyes bright, as if he was expecting some kind of wisdom 
from Jack, some way to handle this burden of self-knowledge. Jack didn't have 
much to give.
" You can't change the past, Hiram," Jack said. "You can maybe make the future a 
little better. We've done that, I think, with what we've done in the last week."
"Hiram." The joker was looking at them with his blank eye sockets. Jack had the 
uneasy feeling he was being scrutinized. "It's time to go."
"Yes. Of course." Hiram was panting for breath, as if the conversation had 
somehow exhausted him.
"See you around, maybe," Jack said.
Hiram turned without a word and headed back to pick up the suitcase. Either it 
held nothing, or Hiram had made it light.
A giddy wave of paranoia struck Jack at the sight of Hiram hefting the huge 
suitcase and heading for the big revolving doors. Suppose Blaise ...
But no. The suitcase was big, Jack realized, but not big enough to hold a 
teenage boy.
The events of the last few days had made him jumpy.
1:00 P.M.
Even with the medication, Puppetman could feel Tony Calderone's pain. It tasted 
spicy. He tweaked it, just for the pleasure. Tony grimaced and jumped slightly 
in his bed, joggling the laptop on his food tray. His face went visibly pale. 
"You okay?" Gregg asked, ignoring Puppetman's interior laughter.
"Just a twinge, Senator. No big deal." His denial was belied by the sweat on his 
forehead. Puppetman giggled. Now leave him alone. We have to work.
No problem, Greggie. It just feels so good to be free again. We've put it all 
together. It's all ours now.
"I've been thinking about the speech, Senator," Tony was saying. "I think I've 
come up with the catch phrase we've been looking for. I was looking through all 
the old speeches. You remember what you said in Roosevelt Park when you declared 
that you were running?"
That brought back memories-it hadn't been long after that speech that he'd had 
Kahina killed in front of Chrysalis and Downs to guarantee their silence about 
his ace. That certainly worked well, Gregg thought ironically.
But it did, Puppetman insisted. It kept things quiet through the campaign. 
Tachyon found out too late. It's all taken care of now.
I suppose ... "What phrase where you thinking of, Tony?" Gregg asked the 
speechwriter.
Tony punched a key and read the words on the LCD screen. "`There are other masks 
than those Jokertown has made famous.' Your own line, too, if I recall, and a 
good one. `Behind that mask is an infection that's all too human ... I want to 
rip the mask off and expose the true ugliness behind, the ugliness of hatred."' 
Tony tapped the screen. "That's a powerful image. I think it's time we built on 
it."
"Sounds fine to me. What have you got in mind?"
"I've been working along those lines since last night. And I've had another 
thought." Tony grinned, and Gregg felt an upwelling of pulsing yellow-Tony was 
proud of this one. He pushed the laptop aside and sat up straighter in the bed. 
His fingertips drummed on his thigh in excitement.
"What if we had everyone wearing masks: you, Jesse, everyone on stage and all 
our delegates out in the audience? Jokers, aces, and nats, every last one masked 
so you can't tell the difference. Then, when you hit the right line-" Tony 
closed his eyes, thinking. "I don't know, something along the lines of, `It's 
time for all of us to remove our masks, the masks of prejudice, of hatred, of 
intolerance' but stronger, much stronger, and with a lot of buildup. And just as 
you say it, boom, everyone rips off their mask and tosses it in the air." Gregg 
chuckled. He turned the scene over in his mind. " I like it. I think I like it a 
lot."
"It's hot. It's a guaranteed spot on every channel. Can you see it, all those 
masks in the air? Man, you talk about an image. It rivets the wild card issue in 
every voter's mind, and Bush is going to have a hell of a time getting drama 
like that at the Republican Convention."
Gregg slapped the bed sheets and stood up. "We'll run with it. You start working 
on the speech; I'll get together with Amy, John, and Devaughn and get this 
coordinated with our people. Tony, this is good. When you have a full draft, 
send it up to Ellen's room. I've got the modem on the Compaq set up."
"You got it, Senator," Tony grinned.
"The public's never going to forget what happens tonight, Tony. Get cracking; we 
don't have much time."
Gregg was grinning as he left the room. Tachyon was out of the picture, the 
nomination was wrapped up, and now the perfect image for the coming campaign. He 
was so pleased he didn't even listen to Puppetman's whining for just one last 
taste of Tony's pain.

3:00 P.M.
"Although there was a small portion of the carpus remaining, I chose to amputate 
a few inches farther back on the radius."
Dr. Robert Benson's method of delivery was dry in the extreme. No bedside manner 
at all, thought Tachyon, staring with sick horror at the ungainly lump of 
bandages swathing his right arm. Perhaps he thinks I can take it being a 
physician myself ... Well, he's wrong.
His arm throbbed in time to the beating of his heart. Tach glanced up at the IV 
mechanically clicking fluids into his body. They had inserted the needle into 
the big vein on the back of his left hand. Good, they noticed I was 
right-handed. .. no stupid, no right hand to put it in. He gagged.
"Feeling nauseous?" Benson held a basin under his chin. "That's natural, the 
aftereffects of the anesthesia."
"I ... know. How ... long ... what time?"
"Oh, time. A little after three on Sunday."
"So ... long."
"Yes, physically you're very run down, and the massive shock and blood loss," he 
shrugged.
"I'm hurting."
"I'll send in a nurse with another shot."
"I'm very allergic to codeine. Use morphine or-"
"Doctors make the worst patients. Always trying to take over their own 
treatment." But Benson smiled as he made a notation on the record. "Go back to 
sleep."
Tach felt his lower lip trembling. "My hand."
"From what I've seen of the news clips you're lucky to have gotten off so 
lightly."
"Doctor." Benson paused at the door, looked back. "Don't tell them."
Benson scratched his chin. "About the virus, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I won't."
Eyes closed, Tachyon evaluated his condition. The painful throat from the 
endotrachial tube, the overall sense of disorientation from the anesthesia, a 
painfully distended bladder, and, overriding all, the thundering pain from his 
mangled arm. The phantom fingers of his right hand twitched convulsively.
If he were at home, he could have a hand regrown in a matter of weeks. But would 
the wild card virus now twined lovingly in his DNA permit a normal growth? Or 
would it place some horror at the end of his arm?
It seemed the final and ultimate irony that he, who had killed his own kin 
attempting to prevent the release of the virus and spent forty years laboring 
among its victims as a means of atonement, should be forced to suffer so much.
"Just manifest and get it over with!" he cried aloud. Tears ran hotly into the 
hair at his temples, and matted in his sideburns.
The virus maintained its smug silence.

4:00 P.M.
When Jack stepped into Tachyon's hospital room, he saw the red-haired alien 
writhing on the bed, clutching his stump.
"Jesus," Jack muttered, and walked fast to the bed. "What just happened?"
"I keep reaching for things with my right hand." Limply. "Call the nurse. Put 
your stump in a sling, help you remember."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Still cradling his stump.
Jack reached for a cigarette and lit up. "You want me to call the nurse, get you 
a shot?"
"No." Tachyon's mouth was a thin line.
Jack blew smoke at him. "People think I'm a macho asshole. They haven't dealt 
with Takisian princes, that's all." He glanced around the room. "Has Blaise been 
here today?"
"I've been sort of looking for him. I want to make sure he's okay."
"I have not seen him." Worry crossed Tachyon's features. "Someone saw hirn with 
Jay Ackroyd. That detective guy who zapped that freak away before I could pound 
him."
"And saved my life, from all reports," Tachyon pointed out. His left hand 
touched his stump. "If Blaise is unsupervised he could get into trouble."
"Precisely my thought."
Tachyon's manner turned imperious again. "Find my grandchild, Jack."
"I'll try."
Tachyon sat up; pointed with his good hand at the closet. "Get my clothes, will 
you?"
Jack looked at the alien in surprise. "Tach, don't worry. I'll find him."
"I must go to the convention."
Jack laughed nervously. "It's all over. You don't have to go anywhere."
Tachyon froze, his violet eves wide. "What do you mean?" Jack gave a sigh. "No 
one's told you, huh?"
"What happened?"
Jack hesitated. He didn't want to get into this. He took a long drag of smoke, 
tried to get it over with fast. "Gregg and Jesse cut a deal. Jackson withdrew 
and threw his support to Gregg. Gregg's got the nomination, Jackson will be 
veep."
"No." Tachyon's eyes dilated in horror. "No, no, no." Impatience rattled through 
Jack's mind. "Will you stop worrying about Gregg's stability, for heaven's sake? 
He put this whole deal together. He's on top of things, okay? Even with all 
these aces gunning after him."
"No! No! No!" A jolt of horror ran through Jack as Tachyon raised his right arm 
high, them brought his stump smashing down on the railing of his bed. The stump 
smashed down again and again.
Jack dropped his cigarette and grabbed Tach's arms. He wrestled the thrashing 
alien back to the mattress, held him till he calmed down. "What the hell's the 
matter with you?" Tachyon just glared at him.
The thought struck Jack with the force of a hurricane. Suddenly he felt as if he 
were. blown off his feet, whirled away into darkness, carried off somewhere 
without light, without security, without hope.
"Gregg, right?" he said. "Gregg's the secret ace." Tachyon just looked away.
"Talk to me, damn it!"
"I cannot."
Jack's knees felt as if they wouldn't support him. He lurched backward, groping 
for a chair, and sat down. His cigarette was smoldering on the floor and he 
picked it up, took a long drag. A tentative, fragile calm descended on him.
"Tell me, Tach," be said. "I need to know. I need to know if I fucked up again."
Tachyon closed his eyes. "It no longer matters, Jack."
"The one thing I do right. The one thing I do right in years, and-" Jack looked 
in surprise at the cigarette he had just crushed in his hand. He looked for some 
place to put it, found none, shrugged, dusted it off onto the floor.
"Tach," Jack said. "I need to know this. I got Gregg nominated, never mind how I 
did it. I need to know whether I did good or not."
Tachyon's eyes were still closed. Jack looked at him in rising anger.
"Are we going to have to play twenty questions here, Tach?"
Tachyon said nothing. "Is Gregg a secret ace?" No answer.
"Sara Morgenstern accused Gregg of being a killer. Is that true?"
Nothing.
"The little freak who tried to kill Sara. Does he work for Gregg?"
The last words were a shout. Tachyon just lay there, his eyes closed. Finally he 
spoke.
"Go away. It's over. There's nothing we can do."
Rage blazed in Jack's mind. He rose from his chair, lunged over the bed to shout 
in the alien's face. "You're so arrogant," he said. "You're such a goddamn 
prince. You say it's over, so it's over. You say that people should stop 
supporting Hartmann, and you give no reason, but they're supposed to go along 
with you because you're a Takisian prince and you know better than anyone else. 
Has it ever occurred to you that if you'd just fucking condescended to tell some 
of us lowly Earth scum about Gregg, we might have managed to put the brakes to 
his campaign without getting Barnett elected? Instead you just ordered me to 
deliver California to Jackson, and expected me to say, Yeah, your lordship, 
whatever you say." Jack shook his fist in front of Tachyon's closed eyes. "Has 
it ever occurred to you that maybe you can trust a human being now and again? 
Has it?"
No answer.
"Damn you anyway!"
Tachyon said nothing. Jack turned and bolted the room like a runaway locomotive. 
His rage fueled his long stride out of the hospital, down the corridor, out into 
a blazing, humid afternoon that seemed to suck the anger right out of his body. 
He headed vaguely toward the Omni. He really didn't have anywhere to go. He 
didn't know what to do about Hartmann, and Blaise could be on this particular 
street as well as anywhere.
If only the goddamn alien had trusted us, Jack thought. Then it occurred to him 
that maybe it was he, Jack, years ago, who had taught Tachyon not to trust 
anyone, not with anything that mattered.
That thought depressed him all the way home.
The speech was set, protocol for the evening's speeches had been set with 
Devaughn and Jackson's staff, Gregg had called the other candidates personally 
and asked each of them to join him on the campaign road in their home states. 
Dukakis and Gore had been politely enthusiastic, congratulating him on the 
victory and promising their help to unify the party. Only Barnett had been cool, 
as Gregg had expected.
To hell with him. We'll take him as a puppet and play with him the next time we 
meet.
Ellen was sleeping. Calderone's latest version of the acceptance speech was in 
the Compaq waiting for him. He could hear Colin, the joker Secret Service who 
had replaced Alex James, scuffing his feet outside the room.
Gregg kissed Ellen, saw her eyes flutter open. "I'm going back to the hotel and 
meet with Logan and a few others," he whispered. Ellen nodded sleepily.
Gregg packed the Compaq into its bag and collected Colin at the door. "Heading 
back to the Marriott," Colin said into his walkie-talkie. "Bring the car around 
to the side entrance. Get some people on the elevators."
On the first floor, Gregg heard a familiar voice at the desk. "Please, mister. 
Listen, they're for the senator's wife ..." Peanut. Puppetman stirred.
"Just a minute, Colin ..." Gregg headed for the lobby, Colin relaying the change 
of plans to the others.
Peanut was holding a rather bedraggled but huge bouquet of flowers, trying to 
give it to the guard behind the desk. The man shook his head repeatedly, 
grimacing.
"What's the problem, Marvin?"
He'd met Marvin while wandering the hospital this morning. Marvin was a slow 
moving and lazy security guard, the butt of a dozen jokes Gregg had heard over 
the last few days from the doctors, the nursing stag, and the orderlies. They'd 
shaken hands in passing: Puppetman had sensed immediately Marvin's distaste for 
his job. In fact, there didn't seem much that Marvin liked at all, jokers least 
of all.
"He wants me to take the flowers up to your wife's room," Marvin growled, 
pulling at the belt slung underneath the overhang of belly. Marvin didn't like 
politicians either, especially Democrats. He eyed Colin's blue-suited athletic 
figure with contempt. "Looks like he got them outta some damn trash can, if you 
ask me."
Peanut was looking forlornly at Gregg, the moist eyes trapped in folds of hard, 
furrowed skin, the flowers drooping in his lone hand. Puppetman could feel the 
undiluted admiration swelling from the slow-witted joker, underlaid with a 
surprisingly deep sorrow for what had happened to Ellen.
"I'm really sorry to cause trouble, Senator," Peanut said. He looked as if he 
were about to cry, glancing from Gregg to Marvin to the impassive gaze of Colin. 
" I thought maybe she might like them ... I know they ain't much, but ..."
"They're very pretty," Gregg told him. "You're Peanut, aren't you?"
Pride swelled in Peanut at the recognition. He tried to smile, and skin cracked 
around the mouth. He nodded, shyly. Gregg held his hand out for the flowers. 
"Marvin's overdoing his job," he said without looking at the guard. "No one 
needs protection from compassion and caring." Puppetman felt Marvin's cold rage 
at that, and Puppetman licked at the emotion eagerly, saturating it. "Ellen will 
be proud to have your flowers, Peanut," Gregg continued, holding out his hand. 
"I'll make sure she gets them. In fact, there's a space at the foot of her bed 
where she'll see them when she wakes up. I'll tell the nurse to put them there."
Peanut handed the flowers to Gregg. The joker's mind was glowing with 
yellow-white pride, overflowing with azure hero-worship. "Thank you, Senator," 
he blurted out, ducking his head. "Thank you. You ... well, everyone out there 
loves you. We all know you'll win."
Gregg gave the flowers to Colin. He hugged Peanut for a moment, then smiled at 
Marvin. "I'm sure Marvin will be glad to get you a taxi to wherever you're 
going, won't you, Marvin?"
Ah, the hatred. Marvin's gaze was daggered. "Sure," he said. "No problem." He 
bit off the end of each word. "I'll take real good care of him."
"Good. Thank you again, Peanut, and thank you from Ellen. She'll love them." He 
glanced at his watch. "And I really need to be running. Peanut, it was good to 
see you again. Colin-"
They walked away. Puppetman rode with Marvin.
Gregg closed his eyes in the back of the limo as they rode to the Marriott, 
relishing Marvin's fury and Peanut's pain as, behind the dumpster in the back of 
the hospital, the security guard beat the crap out of the joker.
It was a nice little snack.

6:00 P.M.
Spector had gone to Piedmont Park after leaving the Marriott. He just wandered 
around, unnoticed, among the jokers. He'd never seen so many happy freaks in all 
his life.
They were singing, and hugging, and kissing each other. Those that could kiss, 
anyway. They must have been partying all night, since at least half of the crowd 
had found some shade to take a nap in. If they'd known what he was going to do, 
or try to do, later on, they'd have torn him into a thousand pieces.
He'd eventually gotten bored of it and walked over to Oakland Cemetery. He 
strolled around among the marble monuments and weathered headstones, reading the 
inscriptions on them and hoping for inspiration. But none came. He was just 
killing time, and he knew it.
He caught a cab and went to his motel, cleaned up, and took another cab to the 
hospital. He'd finished off the bottle of whiskey and bought another. He'd had a 
few slugs from it already, hoping to calm his nerves.
He walked up to the main desk and motioned to the woman behind it. She nodded 
and walked over. She was middle aged, slightly overweight, and had mousy brown 
hair in a tight bun. "What room is Dr. Tachyon in?" He flashed her his fake 
press card.
"Can't you leave that poor man alone?" she said, shaking her head.
"Sorry, lady. Your job's compassion; mine's the news." Spector put the card 
away. "You let me know his room number, and I won't try to stop you feeling 
sorry for him. Fair enough?"
"435," she said, lowering her eyes.
"Thanks," he said, turning away. "It's in the public interest, believe me."
The hospital was so completely different from the one Tony had been in, they 
might have been on different planets. The walls and floors were spotless. There 
was almost none of the disinfectant smell you normally got in hospitals, and no 
stink of jokers at all. There were paintings on the walls and the woman on the 
p. a. system sounded like something from a wet dream.
He stopped outside the room, made sure no one was looking, and took another 
quick slug of whiskey. He shook his arms like an athlete loosening up, took a 
deep breath, and stepped inside.
What he saw almost made him laugh. Tachyon was facing away from him. He was 
wearing a blue hospital robe slit up the back and his little white ass was 
showing. He was holding a bedpan with his one good hand, and his prick was 
dangling over it. Nothing was happening. At the end of his other arm was a 
gauze-covered stump. Spector couldn't manage to be afraid of this pathetic 
little thing. He closed the door.
The crippled alien didn't even turn to look at him. "Please, just another few 
minutes. I know I can manage something. Maybe if you run some water for me."
"Turn it on yourself, Doc."
Tachyon jumped and quickly covered himself. "By the Ideal, have you no shred 
..." He turned and saw Spector, then closed his mouth and stared wide-eyed. 
"You!"
Spector walked quickly over to the bed and took away the little box used to 
summon a nurse. "You won't be needing this." Tachyon turned away from Spector 
and tried to pull himself toward the far corner of the bed.
"Careful, you'll pull your IV out." Spector pointed to the tube that ended in a 
needle in the Takisian's arm. "I'm here for your help."
Tachyon shook his head in horror. "No. James, you mustn't. I can't allow it."
"Can't fucking allow it?" Spector kept his voice quiet, but there was no 
concealing the contempt. "If anybody deserves to die, it's Hartmann. I need you 
to mind-control some people and get me close. I'll do the rest."
"James, please," Tachyon still wouldn't meet his eyes. "I beg you ... don't do 
this. An autopsy ... the scandal." Tachyon gathered himself before continuing. 
"They would run mad. Hunt down every wild card. Quarantine them."
Spector wasn't going to waste his breath arguing. He reached down, grabbed 
Tachyon's stump, and squeezed. He put a hand over the Takisians mouth to mule 
the scream. Tachyon bit into his palm, drawing blood. Spector let go. "Watch 
this, Doc." He held his hand in front of Tachyon's face and watched the wound 
close over.
"Ancestors," Tachyon gasped.
"Don't know everything about me after all, do you? Now show some guts for a 
fucking change. Do the autopsy yourself. Or mind-control the people who do. Use 
your goddamn power for something other than getting little hero-worshiping 
bitches to suck your alien weenie." Spector turned Tachyon loose and took a step 
back.
Tachyon shook his head. "You don't understand. Need rest. Peace." The little 
alien seemed on the edge of hysteria. "Only rest will be the peace of the 
grave."
It was the wrong thing for Tachyon to say and it pushed Spector over the edge. 
He slapped the alien hard, but not as hard as he wanted to. "You feel that? Well 
that's nothing compared to what I have to live with every minute of every day. 
For the rest of my life." Spector leaned in. "I killed a little girl once. Just 
to see her mother's face when she found her. And I thought of you." It was a 
lie, but Spector wanted to give the knife as many turns as he could. "If you 
don't help me, there'll be lots more. You owe me, Doc. Christ, what you did to 
me. You'll owe me forever."
"I'm sorry," Tachyon said, pulling the pillow over his head with his one good 
hand. "But I can't."
"I should have known." Spector got up and headed for the door, looked at the TV 
and stopped. Someone was interviewing the joker Secret Service guy who'd been in 
Tony's room.
"Then, all those on the podium during Senator Hartmann's acceptance speech will 
be wearing masks?" The reporter asking the question was standing as far away 
from Colin as he could.
The joker cleared his throat. "Yes, those are the senator's wishes. He feels it 
would make a certain statement to the American public."
"You, too?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, I've had occasion to wear them in the past." Colin looked like he wanted 
to take the reporter's head off. "Old habits die hard. And like most of us, I'm 
a creature of habit."
Tachyon groaned behind him, but Spector barely noticed. So, Tony had sold his 
boss on the mask idea. A group of masked people on stage was a whole new ball 
game. He might not even need the little creep.
Spector walked over and handed him the bedpan. "When I'm done with Hartmann, I'm 
coming after you."
He heard piss hitting the pan as he left the room. Spector laughed. "Don't say I 
never did anything for you."
Tach lay on his side, the mangled arm propped on a pile of pillows. There was 
the strong smell of urine, and the sheets were damp beneath his hip. He had been 
shaking so hard that he had put most of his load in the bed. He tried to marshal 
his scattered thoughts.
Oh, Ideal, James Spector, the man who could literally kill with a look. I should 
have mind-controlled him ... captured him. But I was scared.
He thought of what his father would have said to that admission. It would not 
have been kind. Princes in the House Ilkazam did not admit to fear.
James was going to kill Hartmann, and then there would be an autopsy, and then 
the world would end.
Too bad about Troll and Father Squid and Arachne and Spots and Video and Finn 
and Elmo-no, Elmo would miss the backlash against the wild cards. He was going 
to Attica for a murder he didn't commit, and Tach knew what they did to jokers 
in Attica. Too bad about all of them.
And him too.
Blaise was gone. Jail loomed ahead, for the investigation Hartmann had launched 
would live on after him. Didn't they still execute people for espionage? And I 
had to become an American citizen. But he would never see jail, Spector would 
kill him first.
He could always phone the Secret Service. Warn them about Spector. But then 
Hartmann becomes president. But was that so bad? I could monitor him, control 
him perhaps.
Stupid! He'll only kill me. He's tried already. He won't rest now until he 
succeeds.
But the wild cards would be safe.
No, too many people knew. Jay and Jack and Hiram, Digger, Sara, George, and 
Spector. Hartmann would try to have them all killed, and in self-defense they 
would speak.
And if the backlash would be horrendous now it would be unimaginable once the 
man was president.
I don't know what to do! Ideal, what should I do? Nothing. He was too tired. Too 
miserable. Too sick.
He closed his eyes, and grimly went searching for the anesthesia of sleep. The 
pain killers lay like a blurring fog across his mind, but the pain ate through 
them like acid.
"It's not so bad. It doesn't hurt so bad. It'll be all right." 
And-surprisingly-Tach agreed with the soft voice. He forced open gummy lids, and 
stared up into josh Davidson's face.
"Hello. How are you feeling?"
"Better now. I thought everyone had abandoned me."
"Sometimes people get reminded of the obligations and duties of friendship." 
Davidson's nose wrinkled at the sour odor of urine.
"I wet the bed," said Tach miserable and embarrassed.
"Then we should get the bed changed. Let me help you." Davidson lowered the 
rail, got an arm around Tachyon's waist, and a grip on the IV unit, and helped 
him into a chair. "Wait, I'll be right back."
He returned moments later with a nurse. She stripped and remade the bed. 
Davidson seemed impatient for her to leave. The door swung shut behind her. The 
actor seated himself across the small table, reached into his coat pocket, and 
took out a pocket chess set.
"I thought we might have a quick game." He palmed a pawn of each color, hid them 
behind his back, then offered two closed fists to Tachyon.
Tach started to reach out with his right hand. Both men froze and stared at the 
gauze-covered stump. "Left," Tachyon said.
Davidson's fingers uncurled, revealing a black pawn. "Here, wait, I'll set it up 
for you." There was a catch in the actor's mellifluous voice.
Davidson opened pawn to king-four. They played a few moves in silence. Then 
Tachyon looked up. "The Evans gambit. That's a very old-fashioned opening," he 
said, shifting slightly because the vinyl on the chair was sticking to his bare 
bottom. " I had a friend who always used that opening."
"Oh?"
"No one you would know."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know. He's gone now. Long gone. Like all the rest."
"Maybe not," said Davidson. Tach laid the tip of his left forefinger on the 
knight. "You don't want to do that. The bishop would be better," the actor 
murmured. The alien switched pieces, and ...
"David! David! DavidDavidDavidDavidDavid."
The IV drip had ripped from his hand as he threw himself on the man opposite 
him. And his weakness betraved him. He could not keep his feet. David Harstein 
caught him beneath the armpits, and they huddled on the floor.
The tweed coat was rough against his skin. Catching on the stubble that littered 
his cheeks. He was wailing like a three-year-old, but he couldn't stop. David's 
hand was softly stroking his curly hair.
"Hush. It's all right now."
And of course it was because such had been the Envoy's power.' "Oh, David, 
you've come back to me."
"Only for a little while, Tach." The Takisian stiffened. "I'm old, Tachy. 
Someday I'll die." Thev sat silent for a few moments then David shook off the 
mood and said, "Let's get you back to bed."
"No, no, this is fine. Talk to me. Tell me everything. Those beautiful, 
beautiful girls-yours?"
"Yeah, I'm pretty proud of them."
"Do they know?"
"Yes, my family's been a pillar for me. I was so bitter when I got out of 
prison. The government tried to recruit me for their covert ace operations." The 
mobile mouth twisted. "I ran, and David Harstein died, and josh Davidson was 
born. I had a new identity, but all the old hate remained. Then I met -Rebecca. 
She took away the hurt. They've never betrayed me." The man's dark eyes were 
thoughtful and distant.
"Jack is .. What I mean is he has ..."
"It's all right, Tach. Braun and I have found common ground, to quote our 
vice-presidential nominee. And Braun reminded me that maybe we do have an 
obligation." He paused considering for a long moment. "Last night, when we all 
thought you were going to die, I realized that just knowing you resided in the 
same world with me was a strange kind of anchor. A comfort. Rebecca reminded me 
that . . well, that knowing I was alive might be a comfort to you."
"It is," Tachyon sighed, taking a tighter grip on David's lapel.
"I've spent thirty years admiring and envying those aces who had the courage to 
use their powers," Harstein mused. "You had the courage."
"Yes, but not the wisdom."
"That is always the problem, is it not?"
"What are you thinking?" the Envoy asked as he studied that thin chiseled face.
"Which is the most important, David? Love, honor, courage, duty?"
"Love," said the actor promptly. Tach patted his cheek. "Gentle one."
"And for you?"
"Honor and duty. I must get to the Omni, David. Will you help me?"
"Tachyon, you're in no condition."
"I know that, but needs must ..."
"Will you tell me why?"
"I cannot. Will you help me?"
"What a question."

7:00 P.M.
Spector hid behind the bed and hoped what Colin had said about being a creature 
of habit was true. Hastings' body was still in the shower. You couldn't really 
smell it until you were in the bathroom. Obvicusly, the maids had only peeked in 
while making their rounds, or they would have found it. Spector checked his 
watch. It was right at 7:00 P. M. If the joker was late, or didn't show at all, 
he'd have to hustle to get over to the convention hall. He'd bought a mask of 
his own, but was afraid it might not match the others.
He heard soft footfalls stop in front of the door. Spector crouched down behind 
the bed. The door opened. Shut. He heard someone sniffing the air. Spector stuck 
his head up. The joker was reaching for his gun. Spector made eye contact and 
pushed hard. Colin's legs folded up underneath him and he made a strangled 
little noise, then he fell over dead.
Spector had tried to make it quick. The brief conversation he'd had with the 
joker didn't give him any cause to dislike the guy. He was just in the wrong 
place at the wrong time. As Spector kneeled next to the body, he noticed 
something that he'd missed before. Colin's hair had a pronounced oily sheen. It 
definitely wasn't hair dressing, and more likely was just a by-product of his 
being a joker. Spector had washed his own hair earlier in the day and it was dry 
as a bone. He rubbed his hands over the corpse's head, then through his own 
hair. After repeating the procedure a few times Spector's hair had the same look 
as Colin's. Also, unfortunately, the same litter-box smell.
Spector rifled the body. Colin was carrying ID, a gun, an earpiece, and even a 
mask. Spector thought back to the beginning of the week in the dusty mask 
factory. It seemed more like a month.
He pulled off the joker's clothes and then his own. A few minutes later he was 
ready. The suit was a little loose and the gun strap tugged uncomfortably at his 
shoulder, but he'd live with it. He went into the bathroom and put on the mask, 
then stepped back from the mirror and looked at himself. It was close to 
perfect. The oily hair really made the difference.
He carefully dragged the joker's body to the shower stall and dumped it on top 
of Hastings. He wouldn't want to be the maid who finally got to clean the place 
up.
The vacant hall behind the podium reverberated to a low-Richter earthquake. 
Outside in the basketball court the crowd was working itself into a final 
frenzy, with a lot of help from Hartmann's little gnomes.
The fools, Sara thought. Her breath ricocheted off the inside of the 
egret-feather mask and rattled in her ears. It's like some kind of fairy tale: 
they're about to proclaim their new king, and never suspect that behind that 
smiling mask he's a demon from Hell.
The stocky man in the blue coveralls with the NBC logo on the right breast and 
ROBO TEAM block-lettered across the back held up her VIP pass for her approval. 
It bore a fictitious name and a photograph. In the feeble light drizzling from 
far away, overhead, she could make out a face framed by whiteblonde hair. The 
face wasn't hers. It was a joker face, the kind calculated to keep even the 
hardest-core ex-Special Forces jock in a Secret Service monkey suit from peeking 
beneath the mask to make sure the real thing matched the photo.
She had read enough le Carre not to be surprised. "George Steele" was a 
high-ranking KGB agent, after all; he would have his resources, and it was 
obvious this attempt to derail Hartmann was no spur-of-the-moment affair. She 
nodded. He pinned the pass to the front of her white dress. "Now," he said, 
stooping to where an NBC minicam lay tipped to its side, "are you certain you 
want to go through with this?"
The minicam opened. Its printed-circuit guts had been partially scooped out to 
make room for a compact Heckler & Koch P7 pistol. Dim highlights perched 
uncertainly on black steel.
He picked it up, pinched the slide back to examine the chamber, then jacked a 
round in. "You remember what I showed you? The three dots line up with the 
target sitting on them as if they were a table. The weapon will not fire unless 
you make sure to switch off the safety here at the side and squeeze the other 
safety at the back of the grip."
She nodded, impatient. " I remember. I used to shoot a .22 as a kid. Colt 
Woodsman. It belonged to my cousin."
"Nine millimeter does a fair amount of damage but has little shocking power. I 
suggest you keep firing until the target goes down."
Or until the Secret Service boys nail me. She held her hand out. He passed the 
pistol to her. She slipped it into her white patent-leather purse and carefully 
fastened the clasp.
"World peace depends upon your going through with this," he said.
Her eyes found his and held them. "Avenging Andi depends on my going through 
with this. And Sondra Fallin, and Kahina, and Chrvsalis. And me."
He stood facing her as if feeling he should say something and unsure of what. 
She stood on tiptoe, gently kissed his cheek. He turned and quickly walked away.
She watched him go. The poor thing. He thinks he's using me.
Funny how naive a spy master can be.

The feeder hall was virtually deserted. Anyone who could possibly cram into the 
deep bowl of the Omni was inside cheering the conclusion of Jackson's 
vice-presidential speech. Tachyon heard the sound of the crowd as a vast 
deep-throated roaring. A surging beast, and I'm walking in its maw, he thought.
David had gently dressed him, but sliding that mangled arm through the sleeves 
of shirt and coat had drenched him in cold sweat. While David had talked them 
past the nurse, Tach had palmed pain killers from the evening medication tray. 
He had dry swallowed them in the taxi, but they hadn't taken effect yet, and he 
found he could hardly stand.
The agent on the door was eyeing the pair skeptically. The slender, .dark older 
man, his arm tightly about the Takisian's waist. Tach presented his press pass.
"There's no room in there, Doctor." He eyed Harstein suspiciously. "Where's your 
pass?"
"I don't have one. He's the one who needs to get in."
"There are no seats available."
"That's all right. I'll stand."
"I can't let you, it's a fire hazard. Go over to the Congress Center. You can 
watch on the big-screen TV."
Tachyon fought down a wave of dizziness and nausea. Ran a hand across his clammy 
face, and felt the scratch of stubble against his palm.
"Please," he whispered, and cuddled his mutilated arm to his chest.
" I think it would be a very good idea if you let him in," said David softly. 
"How much harm can it do? He's one small man."
"Yeah," said the guard hesitantly.
"He left the hospital just to be here for this moment. I know you'd like to help 
him."
"Oh, all right. What the hell. Go on in."
Tachyon squeezed Harstein's shoulder hard with his left hand. "David, don't 
disappear again."
"I'll be waiting."

8:00 P.M.
Spector was sweating buckets. Getting onto the podium had been no problem. 
Making himself stay there was. The convention hall was huge, much bigger than 
he'd imagined, seeing it on TV. Thousands of people, millions if you counted the 
TV audience, would be looking in his direction. He peered at the lighted network 
booths and strained to see if he could recognize Connie Chung, or Dan Rather, or 
what's-his-name from CNN. It kept his mind occupied enough to keep his feet 
planted on the stage.
Jesse Jackson was speaking, his powerful voice rising and falling in his usual 
Southern preacher style. Jackson's nomination as VP was obviously the price 
Hartmann had paid to get him to drop out of the presidential contest.
Spector couldn't see any way to get at Hartmann while he was on stage. Better to 
wait until he was escorting the senator back to his hotel and let him have it 
then. He could run off to telephone an ambulance and slip away. Everyone would 
be too caught up in the moment to miss him. Then it would be back to Jersey and 
a little peace and quiet. He just had to bide his time.
"It was all my idea. People are saying the campaign came up with it, but the 
whole thing was my call." Jack gave a theatrical sigh. " I was wrong, but it 
seemed like a good idea at the time."
The newscasters were filling time with celebrity interviews. Below the CBS 
skybooth, the convention was humming, awaiting the candidate. Half of them 
seemed to be masked.
Jack smiled ruefully into Walter Cronkite's crinkled eyes. "It all seemed to fit 
together. All the wild card violence-and remember, I was attacked twice 
myself-it all seemed aimed at hindering Senator Hartmann's candidacy and 
promoting the Reverend Barnett's. When I saw Barnett personally, I saw how 
charismatic he is. With people like Nur-al-Allah in the worldremember, he's 
another charismatic religious leader who happens to be a wild card-I just jumped 
to the wrong conclusion."
"So you are satisfied that there are no wild cards in the Barnett camp?"
Jack offered a pacticed, cynical smile. "If they're there, they're well-hidden." 
He laughed, disingenuous. "They'd have to be, Walter."
Behind Cronkite a couple dozen video monitors showed the cameras panning the 
convention. People waved signs, danced, laughed behind their masks. Sweating men 
in headphones busied themselves over consoles.
Cronkite seemed in an easy, conversational mood, hardly the hard-ass reporter 
right now. Still, his question stung. "Do you think you should apologize to the 
Barnett campaign?"
Jack gave another patent smile. "I already have, Walter. I delivered a personal 
apology to Fleur van Renssaeler yesterday afternoon." He tightened the smile, 
looked into the camera. Take that, Fleur, he thought.
"So how do you feel now that Gregg Hartmann has finally won the nomination?"
Jack stared into the camera and felt his smile freeze. " I think," he said 
carefully, "that I messed up a few too many times to feel happy with much of 
anything, Walter."
Cronkite put an over-the-audio speaker in his ear, listened for a moment, then 
looked up and said, "I understand the candidate is about to speak. Thank you, 
Jack, and we'll switch now to Dan Rather and Bob Scheiffer."
The red light on the camera went o$: The crowd was roaring, cheering, on their 
feet.
Jack wished with all his heart that he could cheer with them.
For a long moment Tachyon was disoriented. Then he spotted the California 
banner, and he knew where he was. The speakers podium thrust like the prow of a 
ship into the crowded hall. On its various tiers and levels stood the great and 
powerful. Claw-like his hand closed on a man's shoulder, and he forced the 
reporter aside.
"Hey, asshole! Watch out."
"Move," Tach snarled, and pushed past him. Deeper into the crowd. Searching for 
a clear view.
"... THE NEXT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES ..." The words finally penetrated 
Tachyon's haze. "... GREGG HARTMANN!"
The fifteen-thousand people in the Omni erupted. The band blared out "Stars and 
Stripes Forever." Cheers, screams, whistles. Balloons floated down to be batted 
aside by wildly swinging Hartmann signs. Tachyon shuddered under the assault of 
sound and the proximity of so many people.
His aching eyes focused on the podium. Gregg grinning, waving, linking hands 
with Jackson. Ellen, wan and drawn in a wheelchair at his side, smiling. 
Suddenly what had been only a peripheral bit of information penetrated. Eighty 
percent of the people in the Omni wore masks. What had been a merely hopeless 
task had now become impossible. There was no way by ships or stars that he could 
locate James Spector in time to prevent the killing.
He wept while all around him the crowd screamed.
"... the next president of the United States, Gregg Hartmann!"
The crowd went wild out in the Omni. Green-and-gold Hartmann signs waved back 
and forth as the band played. The nets on the ceiling rained balloons down on 
the cheering delegates.
Puppetman was nearly in orgasm. The pent-up emotions of the long week were being 
released in one huge celebration, and the sheer tidal force of it was 
staggering. Gregg took off his clown's mask and stepped forward onto the 
speaker's platform, raising his arms in victory; they shouted back to him 
fiercely, the noise almost deafening. He had to shout to Jesse to come forward 
with him. They clasped hands, raised them waving to the people, and the cheering 
redoubled, drowning out the band, making the Omni shake with the thunderous 
acclamation.
It was glorious. It was ecstasy.
The ovation went on for long minutes. Gregg waved, raised his hands, nodded. He 
saw Jack Braun up in the CBS booth with Cronkite, pointed and smiled, giving him 
a thumbs-up salute. He kissed Ellen, in a wheelchair at the rear of the podium. 
He grinned at Devaughn, at Logan, at everyone. Behind their masks, he knew they 
were all smiling back at him.
We did it! The power in him was drunk with the adulation. It's all ours, 
everything.
Gregg could only grin helplessly in agreement. All ours.
When they finally quieted slightly, he stepped to the podium. He looked up at 
the packed stands, at the shoulderto-shoulder mob on the floor. Many of them 
were in masks, joining with those on the platform.
"Thank you, every last one of you," he said huskily, and they roared again. He 
raised his hands; the cheering softened. It felt good, being able to do that.
"This has been the hardest struggle of my life," he continued. "But Ellen and I 
never gave up hope. We trusted in the judgment of all of you out there, and you 
haven't let us down."
The chant was sweeping across the convention floor:
"Hartmann! Hartmann!" A wave, a torrent, it swept them all up. "Hartmann! 
Hartmann!" Gregg shook his head in feigned modesty, letting it all wash over him 
and grinning down at them.
"Hartmann! Hartmann!"
And the grin suddenly went frozen on his face. Somehow, Mackie was down there in 
the front ranks of the crowd, grinning like all the rest, a hunchbacked boy-man 
dressed all in black and leather. A chill rattled down Gregg's spine.
It's okay, Puppetman murmured inside his head. It's okay. I can control him. But 
Gregg shivered, and when he leaned toward the microphones again, his voice had 
lost some of its enthusiasm.
Forging across the floor between delirious delegates in white plastic straw-like 
hats with HARTMANN emblazoned on them, Mackie felt as if he were made of air. He 
never felt any different when he went insubstantial-phased out-but if he did 
this was how he might feel. As if he was just going to diffuse like a cloud at 
any moment.
He hadn't slept last night, wedged in between a pair of stinking winos on the 
bus from the New York Port Authority. The business-suit pervo, with a taste for 
the slightly bizarre, who'd picked him up in Times Square had obviously realized 
the kind of love he was looking for was expensive to come by in the age of AIDS 
hysteria; he was carrying quite a roll of cash in his pocket. Even after Mackie 
had peeled away the bloodstained hundred on the outside there was more than 
enough for a plane ticket. But he hadn't dared take a plane. They might be 
watching the airports for him; he'd let himself be seen three times now.
Der Mann would be very disappointed.
He was up there on the podium now. A tropism of love and contrition drew Mackie 
to him. He was not supposed to approach Hartmann in public. He would not. He 
just needed the nearness of him.
He pushed out from under the array of press boxes, hanging over the packed court 
like the Death Star. Eel-like he flowed between shouting men with strained shirt 
buttons and fat women in pastel dresses, every face shining with sweat and 
grease and greed for the spoils of the love feast of capitalism.
The spectacle would have disgusted and intimidated him had he any room in his 
mind for thoughts that weren't of Hartmann. Of love and duty and failure.
The podium rose before him like a blue Rhine castle. He didn't see the Man yet, 
but the man on stage was talking about him. He looked to the wings, trying to 
catch sight of Hartmann.
White motion took his eye. Tiers of VIP boxes rose either side of the podium 
like layers of a wedding cake. A diminutive figure in a white dress was excusing 
its way past seated dignitaries on the level to the left of and even with the 
podium. It wore a flamboyant bird mask of white feathers that gleamed like 
silver under the lights.
He started to think, filthy joker cunt. Then he realized what had drawn his 
attention.
The way she moved. He could always recognize a person by posture, the way she 
carried herself, the way her limbs and body acted together. He could always pick 
his mother, the bitch, out of a mob of Sankt Pauli whores by her walk.
Now he recognized Sara Morgenstern, who had greater claim on him than any woman 
since his mother died. Joyous fury bubbling within him, he began to force his 
way through the mob. He would not fail his man again. Or her.
Hartmann was speaking. The crowd, chanting his name, would barely let him get a 
word in edgewise. Jack wandered around the CBS skybooth and tried to stay out of 
everyone's way.
The monitors showed a crowd going mad. Jack watched and wondered what he could 
do.
He could tell people. But he'd had a chance just now, and he couldn't.
He couldn't be the Judas Ace again. He couldn't start a new round of 
persecutions.
He reached for a cigarette, and then he saw the leather boy on one of the 
monitors.
He couldn't mistake the slight, hunchbacked figure, not even behind the mask. 
The puny body and arrogant, jerky walk was an unmistakable combination. "Hey!" 
Jack said. A surge of adrenaline almost knocked him off his feet. He jumped 
forward just as the freak walked off camera. "That's the killer!" He jabbed a 
finger at the monitor. "Right here! Where's that camera pointing?"
The director looked at him with fury in his eyes. "Will you get-"
"Call the Secret Service! That's the chainsaw killer! He's on the convention 
floor!"
"What--"
"Where's that camera pointed, goddamn it?" "Uh-Camera Eight? That's on the right 
side of the podium ..."
"Damn!" The freak was right under the candidates.
Jack looked around frantically. The commentators, deep into their zen, had yet 
to hear his panicked shouts. "Camera Eight." This from the director. "Pan left 
and right. Ready Eight? Cut Eight."
Jack jumped up on the desk in front of Cronkite and lashed out with a foot. The 
safety glass on the front of the skybooth bulged outward, a network of cracks 
appearing around Jack's foot. A startled Cronkite wheeled back on his desk 
chair, barking out oaths sea-dog style, as Jack put his foot through the safety 
glass, then punched out to widen the hole.
The beams supporting the Omni Center's ceiling were just in front and overhead. 
Jack jumped, caught an I-beam with both hands. He moved hand-over-hand along the 
beam toward the podium. This was going to take forever. He swung back, forward, 
pushed himself o$, flew from one supporting beam to the next.
He'd done this for years on NBC. The old Tarzan reflexes came back without 
thought.
There was sudden commotion. Hartmann's speech had been interrupted. He was too 
late.
As Gregg Hartmann strode forward through torrents of applause, Sara deliberately 
moistened her lips. How confidently he walks. He thinks he's a god.
But there were no gods any more. Just men and women, some with more power than 
any mortal could safely use. The purse fell open beneath numbed fingers as if of 
its own accord. She reached a gloved hand inside. The metal and checked rubber 
of the grip were cool fire, burning her fingers. "Andi," she whispered. She drew 
the pistol. Letting her purse dangle from her forearm by one strap she raised 
the weapon both-handed.
Mackie was practically running through the close-packed delegates, using 
cattle-prod buzzes of his elbows to wellpadded rumps to clear a path, phasing 
out when he had to.
He'd do Sara fucking Morgenstern on nationwide TV, fuck her right straight 
through the heart with his good right hand. Der Mann would be so proud.
He felt pressure in the armpits and then his feet paddled air as he was hoisted 
off the floor by the collar of his leather jacket. "Not so fuckin' fast, joker," 
a voice grated in his ear.
Squirming, he was turned around into a blast of boozeand-tobacco breath. His 
captor was a large man in a bonewhite jumpsuit, with black hair hanging into his 
face. It was a strange sort of face. It looked as if it had been busted into its 
component parts and hastily super-glued back together. The nose was a mangled 
mass, the cheekbones mismatched, and the green eyes burned at different angles.
"You better not fuck with me, goddamn you!" Mackie screeched, half-blind with 
fury. "I'm goddamn not a joker! I'm Mack the Knife!"
The big man winced from the shower of angry spittle. "You look like Jack the 
Shit to me, junior. Now let's you and me and my good right hand go somewhere for 
a little talk, nice and private like -"
Mackie lashed out with his own right hand.
His fingertips touched the knobbed right cheekbone with a noise and smell like a 
dentist's drill going into a tooth. They slashed through cheek and lip and bone, 
cutting away half the lower jaw at a slant. Nude teeth grinned at him a 
millisecond before washing out in a rush of blood. The big man dropped him and 
clapped both hands to the spurting ruin of his face.
Mackie turned back to the podium. A woman with orange-dyed hair stood in his 
path, her mouth a tunnel right down to her belly. He hacked her out of his way 
like an explorer taking a machete to an inconvenient branch.
Der Mann would have to understand. There was no time for subtlety any more.
She hadn't expected the screams so soon. She was betting her vengeance since her 
life was forfeit anyway-that every eye in the Omni would be locked on the podium 
as Gregg began his speech. But no one in the VIP seats nearby showed any sign of 
being aware of her. The three dots of the sights rose before her eyes like fat 
white moons seeking auspicious alignment.
Peripheral vision betrayed her. There was a commotion amid the Mississippi 
delegation, right up front of the podium. For all her efforts to see nothing but 
Hartmann and the rising moons, her eyes flicked briefly in that direction.
She felt the strength puff from her like air from a burst balloon. He had come. 
The leather kid. Slashing a bloody swath through the crowd, straight for her.
Hartmann was speaking. Mesmerized, Tachyon watched the movement of the mouth and 
heard not a word. Overlaid upon the plain familiar features was another 
face-bloated, dissipated, evil-Puppetman leered down at him.
Sickened, he dropped his gaze. Stared blankly at his stump. His thoughts chased 
one another like swirling leaves. Have to stop him.
How?
Have to do something. What?
Must think.
Have to stop him.' How?
How? How?
Screams cut into the words of the candidate, the cheers of the crowd. Thin, like 
a trickle of blood pushing into healthy tissue. Spreading now, becoming a 
hemorrhage. The reporters surrounding Tachyon sensed that something was 
happening. They began to lurch forward, carrying Tach with them. They came up 
against a wall of fleeing humanity. Delegates, mouths wide with terror, running 
for the exits.
The world narrowed to thrashing arms, the stench of fear. Tachyon's shields 
reeled under the onslaught of fifteen-thousand people reacting in either terror 
or confusion.
A burly man, the buttons that covered his chest chattering like castanets, 
caromed into the tiny alien. Tach screamed, a shrill tearing sound as the 
bandages covering his amputation caught on the man's belt buckle, and he was 
yanked after him. He lost his footing and went down, the bandage tearing free.
Feet pounded across Tachyon's back driving the breath from his chest. He felt 
his cracked ribs give. A red-hot poker had been driven into his chest. Driving 
deeper with every breath he took.
But it was nothing compared to the agony of his arm as terrified humans ran over 
him, their heels grinding the stump into the floor of the Omni.
I am going to die. Terror lay thick and choking on the back of his tongue. A 
tiny thread of fury shot through him. No! I am damned if I will die in this 
humiliating fashion. Trampled by hysterical groundlings.
It took all his concentration to think through the suffocating blanket of pain. 
Braun's mind was a familiar glow in the midst of madness. His power lashed out, 
nestled close like a homing bird returning to a place of safety. He read the 
confusion and hesitation in the big ace's mind.
Jack, save me! Tach?
Help me! Help me!
He couldn't hold the contact any longer. With a sigh he dropped away.
But Jack was coming.
A freight-train weight smashed into Mackie from behind. It drove his right hand, 
held like a spearhead at the end of his stiffened arm, right into the chest of a 
man with a pink shirt and beige tie. Irresistible, the mass forced him onward, 
down. His hand exploded out of the man's ribcage in a welter of blood. He hit 
the floor. His head rebounded off hardwood, and he felt something snap in his 
chest.
Squealing with rage and pain, he put a buzz all over his body. His attacker 
yowled and rolled away. He jumped to his feet.
" You fucker, you fucker, I'll cut your dick off and make you eat it!" He was 
screaming in German now, but it didn't matter; his hands would do all the 
talking that mattered.
Through a screen of tears he saw a fist swelling toward his face. Something 
tugged his mind, an eyeblink of doubt, of distraction. Belatedly he started to 
phase.
The blow caught him on the chin, snapping his head back... .
And then passed harmlessly through.
Gregg had stopped speaking, though with the cheering and chanting, no one seemed 
to have noticed as yet. Looking down, he saw Carnifex bull his way toward 
Mackie, making a visible wake in the crowd. Mackie, with some second sense, 
noticed the ace at the same time and turned, snarling. The hands were buzzing 
now. Someone next to Mackie screamed and pointed, and then everyone was trying 
to make space around the hunchback as Carnifex shouted and charged.
Puppetman shouted with him, exultant. Good. The boy's no use anymore. Let 
Carnifex kill him.
Mackie will carve him up, Gregg told the power. They're both puppets. We can 
control this game.
It was a strange blend of ecstasy and fear. It tasted so good.
Yes, get rid of Mackie. That wasn't going to be easy. Mackie swung, and a line 
of blood followed, ruining the front of Carnifex's spotless uniform even as the 
ace swung a fist and knocked Mackie backward off his feet. Already the blinding, 
pulsing red of pain and terror was swelling in Carnifex's mind. The ace in white 
was backing up a step, watching Mackie's hands as the kid levered himself off 
the floor, grinning despite his smashed, ruined mouth.
Puppetman reached out. He found the fear in Carnifex and clamped down on it 
brutally. Then he reached for Mackie, looking for the switch in that crazed mind 
that would render him vulnerable.
There, Puppetman said in satisfaction. There.
A gunshot sounded loud in Gregg's ear. In that moment, Puppetman startled with 
him, losing Mackie for a precious instant as the packed auditorium erupted in 
horrified screams, as panic and terror drifted through the air like a thick fog. 
"My god, they're killing each other!" someone cried.
"Stop!" Gregg shouted into the microphones, but his voice was lost in the 
uproar.
Have to do it, she realized, now. Before he gets here. She willed into her arms 
the strength to straighten, to raise the blunt black pistol.
Bleating in terror, a tall, gangly man with gray hair fringing a narrow 
promontory of skull came boiling out of his chair like a stork frightened from a 
canebrake. A flying elbow hit the gun and spun it out of Sara's grasp.
She shrieked in despair as it cartwheeled over the front of the box and into the 
crowd.
Gunfire crashed from the podium, and Gregg Hartmann vanished under a wave of 
Secret Service suits.
Spector jumped when something shattered the glass up in the media booth. It 
froze him for an instant and agents were already swarming over Hartmann and the 
other big wheels, pushing them into the wings or knocking them to the floor. He 
ran several steps toward the senator, but two other men had him face down behind 
the podium.
The screams were deafening. Spector couldn't think with all the racket. 
Gunshots. He saw several agents firing toward a target in the crowd. Golden Boy 
was swinging on the girders overhead toward the area where the men were 
shooting. Spector piled on top of Hartmann. The senator grunted, but didn't turn 
over to face him. In a moment or two he would look over his shoulder, and 
Spector would be waiting.
Jack swung from beam to beam like a desperate pendulum. He couldn't tell what 
was going on up on the platform. He could see Billy Ray's white suit, Secret 
Service with guns, delegates stampeding-no Hartmann, no hunchback. There was 
just the unmistakable impression of violence being done. He flung himself to a 
beam above his own California delegation, then stopped.
Gregg Hartmann was the secret ace, a killer. Why should he care what happened to 
the man?
While he hesitated, he heard a scream resonate in his mind. Tachyon was down in 
the stampede, being trampled. He hesitated again. The cry came again. He saw 
there was no one directly below him, then dropped.
He danced back. His chin felt as if someone had hit him with a hammer and his 
neck muscles groaned. If he'd taken the full force of the blow, it would have 
snapped his neck. Who is this?
His vision cleared. He staggered as if he'd been punched again. It was the 
black-haired man with the spare-parts face. Leering at him with his deaths head 
grin. The front of his jumpsuit was red-splashed now, as by a spastic eating 
spaghetti in red sauce. The blood-geyser bad dwindled to a trickle. "S'ow you a 
thing or two, you little son o' a hnitch!" the big man bellowed. He swung a 
haymaker at Mackie.
Terror yammered in his brain. I can't beat this monster! Fighting down the fear 
Mackie phased, just ahead of impact that would have pulped his forebrain. The 
big man's momentum carried him right through him. He recovered with a tiger's 
quickness, spinning around with his hands coming up to strike or defend.
Mackie was right after him, anger overwhelming persistent fear. He aimed a 
stroke at the temple. Let's see how he does with his head cut in half.
The big man snapped up a hand in a knife-edge block. Fingers tumbled like 
clothespins from a sack as Mackie sliced through it. The black-haired man threw 
himself backwards into the crowd, just managing to keep from catching the buzz 
saw hand in his skull.
His breath tore at the right side of his chest like talons. He must have cracked 
a rib when that big fucker tackled him. He phased through the curtain wall at 
the foot of the podium, into the hidden moat that separated the delegates from 
the stand. From the corner where the square-sectioned column of the podium 
proper met the facing of the elevated dais a muscular young man with a wire 
trailing from one ear gaped at him and hauled a tiny machine-pistol from inside 
his dark suit coat. Mackie met his eyes and grinned, unaware that his nose was 
bleeding and his smile a ghastly clown's.
The Secret Service man's finger convulsed on the trigger. A spray of 
nine-millimeter bullets passed through where Mackie wasn't and ripped into the 
crowd behind. The fresh screams of the shot almost made Mackie come.
He cut the Secret Service man's neatly pressed legs out from under him, right 
below the knee. The agent toppled shrieking into the moat, leaving blood 
splashed across the front of the dais and his lower legs standing. Briefly.
White ziggurat steps flanked the podium, too large to serve as stairs. Mackie 
began to clamber up them.
A blow from behind sprawled him across the second. Dazed, he felt himself picked 
up and flung like a doll. He smashed into the outer wall of the moat.
He was broken inside. "Mutti," he groaned. "Mommy."
It was the black-haired man, who had clubbed him down with his mangled hand and 
thrown him with the good one. Who was snarling at him from the foot of the 
podium, peeling what lips Mackie had left him, back from his teeth.
Who gathered himself and leapt like a tiger on a staked kid.
In desperation, Mackie thrust himself from the wall, bringing up a hand. 
Bringing on that buzz.
His hand met resistance. Fluids drenched his face, hot and sticky.
The big man crashed through the retaining wall trailing loops of gut like greasy 
purple-gray pennons.
Lying on her stomach on the VIP box's floor, Sara had a perfect shot at 
Hartmann. He was buried for the moment beneath a pile of Secret Service bodies, 
but they were concentrating on what was happening in the audience. No one was 
sparing the dignitaries' seats any attention at all. When they let him up, she'd 
have him dead to rights.
Except she'd lost her gun.
She drummed a fist on the floor of the box with a deliberate self-hating 
cadence.
Gregg had no chance to recover.
Two Secret Service people hit him like blitzing linemen, shoving him down on the 
floor with guttural, wordless yells, their guns out. Colin, the joker, piled 
directly on top of him, almost knocking his breath away. "Stay down, Senator!" 
Puppetman snarled at the interference.
He could still hear the buzz saw whine of Mackie's hands, tangled with the 
crowd's screams, as Carnifex plowed into the boy. But he couldn't see, couldn't 
pull the strings easily because he didn't know what was happening.
Let me go! Just let me have them! That's the only chance. Gregg let loose all 
hold of Puppetman, lying there underneath the guards as the power reached out, 
savage. He mind-raped Carnifex, slicing out the pain and the fear, pumping the 
adrenaline so high that he could almost feel the ace's heart pounding in his own 
head. At the same time, he tried to dampen Mackie's insane rage, but that was 
like handling fire- it burned, it twisted in his grasp.
Smash him! Puppetman screamed to Carnifex. Use that damn strength and make the 
little man another bloodspot on the floor.
Then he felt Billy scream in agony despite the mindblock and even as he gulped 
at the pain greedily, he knew Mackie had won this battle. The weight on top of 
him was gone. Half a dozen of the Secret Service were shouting on the podium as 
Gregg struggled to get up, to see again. "He's cutting us to pieces--"
Then there was more gunfire, loud, and too close.
With frantic palm strokes Mackie wiped his opponent's blood from his eyes. The 
bitch was gone. Damn, damn, damn. He had to find her, he could not fail again--
He looked up. Hartmann was nowhere in sight. Had something happened to him, 
happened to the Man? Weeping tears and blood, coughing up bloody snot, he 
scrambled up, a broken toy on a giant's stairs. Unimpeded, up onto the ramp that 
gave onto the dais from stage right. Hartmann was lying there beneath half a 
dozen young men in suits. He looked all right. Grateful tears filled Mackie's 
lower eyelids.
He felt a hot breath on his cheek, heard a yell of agony from behind him as the 
bullet went home. A dark-suited man knelt beside the Senator on his knees, 
pointing a gun at him with both hands.
He tried to phase. Doubt and fatigue clamped his mind. I can't
Yellow fire reached for him from the short muzzle. Black fire exploded in his 
chest. He fell.
Strong arms dragged Spector off Hartmann and spun him toward the crowd. "He's 
cutting us to pieces. Get your piece out. We've got to nail him," said the 
Secret Service man who'd pulled him upright.
It was true. A little hunchback was slicing men to pieces with his buzzsaw-like 
hands. Spector popped the leather restraint and hauled out his gun. What the 
hell, might as well look the part; it could help him get free later. Spector 
kneeled and fired. The gun had more kick than he'd expected and the bullet took 
down a man well behind the fight. He steadied his gun hand with his free arm and 
aimed, then squeezed off three more rounds. The hunchback spun and went down.
Spector turned back toward Hartmann. "Are you all right, Senator?"
Hartmann looked up and Spector caught his eye.
Darkness pulled at Mackie with seductive arms. He fought it. There was something 
he had to do. Someone Terror burst inside him. His eyes came open.
He lay spread-eagled across a tier. The dais's facing hid the Senator from him. 
Der Mann needs me!
That need gave him strength. He made his limbs respond to his will. Made himself 
climb, despite the tendency of hands and Keds to slip in the red liquid that 
covered the ledge.
Der Mann lay where he had been before. But his neck was craned, and he was 
staring fixedly up at a tall, gaunt Secret Service agent. His expression seemed 
both elated and terrified.
Hatred for the skinny agent hit Mackie like amphetamines. He's the one who shot 
me! But worse than that, he was doing something to the senator. Mackie couldn't 
see what, but he knew.
He limped forward. His right foot dragged. Each step sent a white-hot poker 
through his belly. He needs me. I won't- --fail--him--again.
Spector felt something in Hartmann resist him for a moment, then it sucked him 
in like a whirlpool. His deathpain boiled into the senator's mind; every 
excruciating detail, the broken bones, the fiery blood, the choking, rushed out.
But something was wrong. Hartmann's mind wasn't reacting like any of the others. 
It was bloating, feasting on Spector's death. Spector pushed harder. Slowly, the 
other mind gave way under the pressure and began to fade.
So good so tasty but it hurts and it kills ... it isn't real it can't be real it 
isn't possible ...
But it was and Puppetman's voice had faded to a whisper and left completely and 
even the pain that leaked into Gregg from Puppetman was like a searing acid 
poured down his psyche so that he wanted to scream and plead and beg don't kill 
me don't kill me I don't want to die.
But he couldn't break that awful gaze, couldn't tear himself away from those 
strange, sad, pained, startled, hurt eyes, those eyes that weren't Colin's at 
all but someone else's ...
. and he knew that he was going to die, that he would be next, that he would 
follow Puppetman into the void behind those eyes .
"You're killing me!" Gregg spat with all the strength he had left, hoping that 
those eyes would blink or look away or turn ...
... and there was nothing left in his world but those eyes ...
The dark-clad back loomed ahead of. Mackie like a narrow cliff. Mackie swayed. 
He wanted to lie down and sleep for a long, long time.
Instead he raised his right hand, brought the buzz. He looked at his fingers, a 
pink blur. The sight gave him strength. He swung his hand in a flat sweeping 
cut.
Spector could barely stay on his feet. His knees wobbled from the strain. He'd 
given Hartmann everything he had, and felt hum go under. But the son of a bitch 
was staring at him, blinking. It simply wasn't possible.
Spector remembered the gun in his hand. He centered it on Hartmann's chest. He 
heard a sound like a giant bee, and hesitated. He felt a grinding pain in his 
neck. The convention hall spun, over and over, then rushed up and slammed him in 
the face. His ears were roaring, but none of the sounds seemed to make sense. 
There was a body lying on the floor not far from him. It was Colin; at least, it 
looked like the joker. But he didn't have a head. There were ribbons of tattered 
flesh on the neck where it had come off. All Spector could see were rushing 
feet.
It had to be a dream. Like the one he'd had before, only worse. He felt sick and 
paralyzed, but at the same time strangely euphoric. He'd just close his eyes and 
bring things back under control.
The head had rolled against the back of the podium. Feeling as if he were 
drifting on air Mackie limped toward it through roaring silence.
Painfully he leaned forward. His body felt like a dry twig that broke in a new 
place with every few degrees he bent.
He picked up the head, straightened slowly. He held the head up, to show to 
Gregg, to show to the herd of frightened sheep in white hats who trampled one 
another in their frenzy to flee him.
"I'm Mackie Messer," he croaked. "Mack the Knife. I'm special."
He brought the head to his face, kissed it full on the lips. 'The eyes opened.
Spector felt something on his mouth. He opened his eyes. The hunchback was 
staring down at him, a mocking smile on his lips. It wasn't a dream. The 
realization was like a fist in his chest, but he didn't have a chest anymore. 
The little fucker had sliced his head off. He was going to die. After all he'd 
lived through, he was going to fucking die! Again.
Spector fought through his panic and locked eyes with the hunchback. He 
channeled his pain and terror through his eyes and into the man who'd killed 
him. The world began to shake and blur. Spector felt the darkness closing in and 
tried to push it all into the hunchback. A familiar fear crept into Spector. He 
felt very alone.
The darkness was complete.
Mackie tried to pull his eyes away. The head's eyes held them with black-hole 
suction.
Something was shaking his soul to pieces. His body began to shake in sympathy, 
vibrating faster and faster, out of control. He felt his blood begin to boil, 
felt himself sweating steam from every pore.
He screamed.
The skin on the severed head's cheeks crisped and blackened from the friction of 
Mackie's fingers. The buzzing fingers met bone, began to shake the skull to 
pieces, to agitate the fluids within the rounded box of its cranium to the 
boiling point.
But the eyes--
The leather boy exploded. Sara dropped her head into her arms, felt wet impacts 
in her hair that would stay with her forever.
When she looked again, there was nothing left of hunch back or head but 
red-and-black splashes steaming all over the podium.
There was a dead moment.
Then Gregg was pushing aside his blanket of Secret Service agents, struggling to 
his feet. The crowd had flowed back from the podium like mercury from a 
fingertip. Now it washed forward again with a roar that went on and on.
That's it. He's president now. This guarantees it. The death of his ace assassin 
was no comfort. President Gregg Hartmann would have no need of German 
psychopaths to deal with his opponents.
If we even get that far. Steele had hinted that Soviets would launch a 
first-strike rather than see Hartmann inaugurated.
Her head was a dead weight. She let it drop, and let the grief pour out in 
hopeless tears.
Jack just tossed people out of the way till he found Tachyon, then picked the 
little man up and stuffed him securely under one arm. Gunshots cracked out; the 
stampeding crowd accelerated. There was wild but confused violence on the 
platform. Jack couldn't see a thing.
Jack bulled his way through the crowd, parting them like the Red Sea. Finally he 
and Tachyon stood in front of the massive white podium, but from his low angle 
they could see nothing.
Whatever had happened seemed to be over. Gregg Hartmann rose from the crush of 
Secret Service and brushed himself off as he walked uncertainly to the 
microphones.
"Damn," Jack said. "We're too late."
There were still people shouting and screaming in the hall; there was still 
panic as they stampeded for the exits or stared at the podium in frozen horror.
Yet the impression Gregg had was somehow one of silence, of a frozen moment like 
a still photograph. He could hear his own breath, gasping and very loud in his 
ears; he could feel very clearly the hands of the Secret Service man on either 
side of him. He could see Jesse Jackson being herded off the podium, Ellen 
blockaded by a cordon of uniformed security, dignitaries on the floor or 
standing with hands to faces or running blindly from the scene.
There was more blood and gore than Gregg had thought possible.
And a strange, echoing void inside his head. Puppetman?
There was no answer. Puppetman? he queried again. Silence. Only silence.
Gregg took a shuddering breath. He allowed himself to be . hauled to his feet, 
then shrugged away the restraining hands that wanted to pull him from the 
podium. "Senator, please--"
Gregg shook his head. "I'm fine. It's over." And it was very clear what he had 
to do now. The path was laid out before him, a gift. Puppetman was gone, and the 
loss was as if some great, dark burden had been lifted from him, a burden he 
hadn't even been aware that he was carrying. Gregg felt good. There was carnage 
and destruction all around him, and yet ...
Later. Later we'll know.
He straightened his jacket, tugged at his tie. He arranged the words in his 
mind, knowing what he would say. Please. Please be calm. This is what happens 
when jealousy and hatred are allowed to grow. This is the fruit we receive from 
the seed of prejudice and ignorance. This is the bitter feast we endure whenever 
we turn away from suffering.
Words to salvage a presidency from ruin. Brave Hartmann, cool Hartmann, 
compassionate Hartmann. Hartmann before the eyes of a nation: a calming, 
competent leader in the midst of crisis.
Gregg stepped forward to the mikes. He looked out to the crowd and raised his 
hands.
Tachyon's left arm was locked about Braun's neck. His right lay across his 
chest. Blood stained the bandage over the amputated end. The pain from his 
broken ribs and his arm was so great that he couldn't lift his head from Jack's 
shoulder as the big ace cradled him in his arms.
Jack had returned to his place in the California delegation. The Omni smelled 
like a slaughterhouse, the airconditioner unable to banish the sickly sweet odor 
of blood. The sharp scent of gunpowder still hung in the air, the smell of shit 
from the released bowels of the dead. Shock seemed to hold the entire 
convention.
James Spector was dead.
The hunchbacked assassin was dead. But Hartmann remained.
Tachyon gnawed at his lower lip.
The candidate broke free of the clinging Secret Service agents. Head back, 
shoulders squared, hands outstretched in benediction, a gesture of calm, or 
reassurance.
He stepped to the microphone.
And in that moment Tachyon knew what to do.
Gregg began to speak, his gaze searching and pleading with the people in the 
seats. "Please," he began, his voice calm and deep and compelling.
And then ...
.. Tachyon was in his head. The alien's strong, insistent presence took Gregg's 
struggling ego and pushed it backward, stepping in front of him even as Gregg 
resisted desperately and uselessly.
"Please be calm ... Hey, shut the fuck up and listen to me!" his voice shouted 
without any volition on his part, echoing throughout the Omni. He saw himself in 
one of the monitors above the floor, and he was smiling, smiling that oily, 
practiced campaign smile like nothing at all had happened. "Oops, got a little 
too vehement there, didn't I?" He felt himself giggle, of all things, tittering 
like a child. Gregg tried to stop the laughter, but Tachyon was too strong. Like 
a helpless ventriloquist's dummy, he spouted someone else's words.
"But you have to admit you did shut up, didn't you? That's better. Hey, I'm 
calm. Let's all be calm. No panic in a crisis, not me. No way. Your next 
president doesn't panic. Uh-uh."
Down on the floor, the exodus had stopped. The delegates were staring at him. 
His casual, amused delivery was more chilling and horrible than any screaming 
fit could have been. Above the sobbing and moaning behind him, he heard Connie 
Chung in the VIP section shout into her mike, "Get the cameras on Hartmann! 
Now!"
Inside, he continued to fight uselessly against the bonds Tachyon had placed on 
his will. So this is what it feels like to be a puppet, he thought. Let me go, 
damn you! But there was no escape. Tachyon held the strings, and he was a 
practiced puppeteer himself.
Gregg chuckled, glanced back at the carnage, and then shook his head as he 
turned back to the crowd. He held his arm straight out from his body toward 
them, his palm down and fingers spread wide.
"Look at that," he said. "Not even a tremble. Cool as a damn cucumber. So much 
for the old '76 worries, huh? Maybe this is a good thing in the long run, if it 
puts all that business to rest."
John Werthen and Devaughn had come forward to pull him away from the mikes, and 
he watched himself flail his arms at them, pushing them away and grabbing at the 
mikes desperately. "Go away! Can't you see that I'm just fine? Back off! Let me 
handle this." John looked at Devaughn, who shrugged. Gregg tugged his hopelessly 
soiled suit coat back into position as they let go of him hesitantly. He gave 
that eerie smile for the cameras once more.
"Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes." He chuckled again and waggled a finger at the 
delegates. "This is not acceptable behavior and I won't have it," he scolded 
them as if talking to a class of schoolchildren. "We had a little problem up 
here but it's over. Let's forget it. In fact-"
He giggled and bent down to the stage. When he straightened again, his 
forefinger was dripping with a thick, bright red liquid. "I want you to write 
`No More Violence' a hundred times as punishment," he said, and he reached out 
to the clear acrylic panel in front of the lectern and traced a large smeary "N" 
on it. The first loop of the "O" was barely legible.
"Oops, out of ink," Gregg declared gaily, and bent down to the stage again. This 
time he plopped something meaty and unidentifiable down on the lectern with a 
distinct wet plop. He dipped his finger into it like a quill pen into an 
inkwell. Someone was being noisily sick again behind him, and there were screams 
from down on the floor. He could hear Ellen sobbing and pleading with anyone who 
would listen: "Get him out of there. Please, stop him ..." John and Devaughn 
came forward again, and this time they took hold of him firmly, one on each arm.
"Hey, you can't do this!" Gregg spluttered loudly. "I haven't finished yet: You 
can't-"
It was over. At least it was over. Tachyon's control dropped from him and he 
sagged in their arms, silent. Gregg tried not to see the horrified faces he 
passed as they escorted him backstage: Ellen, Jackson, Amy. He cursed Tachyon, 
knowing the alien was still there.
Damn you for this. You didn't have to do it this way. You didn't have to 
humiliate and destroy me like that. Couldn't you see that Puppetman was dead? 
Damn you forever.

11:00 P.M.
Tachyon lay in bed. They had wanted to put him back in the hospital, but he had 
fought that like a maddened creature, and Jack had kept him out of the hands of 
the doctors. He had allowed them to rebandage his stump, rewrap his ribs, but no 
more. He had even refused the pain pills. Because somewhere in this city was his 
grandchild, and Tach needed a clear head to find him. His brain seemed to be 
battering at the confines of his skull as he searched, but only darkness 
answered him.
Pain took him, and he hung over the side of the bed and retched. The memory of 
those final chaotic minutes at the convention reared up and added to his 
confusion. Hartmann's mind beating like a trapped and terrified animal at the 
iron confines of Tachyon's mind-control.
For an instant remorse gripped him, then slowly Tachyon raised the ugly ungainly 
stump, and studied it. Hate replaced the momentary flicker of regret. I'll never 
do surgery again. Damn him to eternal wandering!
His jaw set in a stubborn, bitter line, and he crawled from the bed. The 
Nagyvary lay in its case. City light filtered around the edge of the curtain and 
glimmered on the polished grain of the wood, danced on the strings. Gently he 
drew the fingers of his left hand across the strings releasing a sigh of sound. 
Rage filled him. Snatching out the violin, Tachyon swung it hard against the 
wall. The wood splintered with a horrible brittle sound. Several strings broke 
with sharp jarring notes; a musical scream of pain.
His final swing pulled hum off balance, and Tach instinctively threw out his 
right hand to catch himself. Screamed. Black spots danced before his eyes, and 
suddenly he felt hands on his shoulders. Someone lifting him.
"You damn fool! What now are you doing?" asked Polyakov, depositing him back in 
the bed.
"How ... how did .. you ... get in?"
"I'm a spy, remember?"
The worst of the agony receded. Tach touched his upper lip with his tongue, 
tasting salt. "This isn't very good trade craft," said Tachyon.
"We needed to talk." George was rummaging about Tach's discarded clothes until 
he found the flask.
"You could have just left," the alien whimpered, and hated himself for his 
weakness. "Slipped away to Europe, the Far East ... begun again. And left me to 
face the inharmonious music."
Polyakov gulped down brandy. "I owe you too much for that. "
A tiny, bitter smile touched Tachyon's thin lips. "What? You don't believe in 
Gregg's tragic breakdown?"
"I believe that he had a little help." A sigh.
"It was damn close." Polyakov grunted. "More exciting that way."
Tachyon accepted the flask, and took a sip. "You don't like exciting. You like 
subtle and efficient. George, what are we going to do? Share a cell at 
Leavenworth?"
"What do you want?"
"I'm not too proud to beg. Help me, please. My devil's stepchildren, my 
grandson, what will become of them if I am incarcerated? Please, please help 
me."
The mattress squeaked and shifted as the man seated himself. "Why should I?"
"Because you owe me, remember."
"We'll probably never see each other again."
"I've heard that before, too."
The Russian took another swallow of brandy. "How are you going to control 
Blaise?"
"Make him love me. Oh, George, where has he gone? Where can he be? What if he's 
hurt and he needs me and I'm not there!" His voice rose shrilly. Polyakov pushed 
him back against the pillows.
"Hysterics won't help."
Tach pleated the edge of the sheet, stared with strained eyes into the oblivion 
of the far wall.
"Let me ease your mind on one point. I've already called the FBI, and offered to 
roll over in exchange for your immunity."
"Oh, George, thank you." His head fell back wearily against the pillows. 
"Goodbye, George. I would offer to shake hands, but ..."
"We'll say goodbye the Russian way."
Polyakov bear-hugged him, and pressed hard kisses onto each thin cheek. Tachyon 
reciprocated in the Takisian fashion with a kiss to the forehead and lips.
The Russian paused at the bedroom door. "How do you know you can trust me?"' 
"Because I am a Takisian, and I still believe in honor."
"Not much of that around."
"I take it where I can find it."
"Goodbye, Dancer."
"Goodbye, George."

CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday July 25, 1988
8:00 A.M.
"You're finished, politically," Devaughn said. His tone was almost jolly; Gregg 
wanted to smash his fucking face in. With Puppetman it'd be easy.
But Puppetman's gone. Dead.
"I'm not quitting, Charles," Gregg retorted. "Have you gone deaf? This is just a 
goddamn minor setback."
"Minor setback? Christ, Gregg, how can you say that?" Devaughn rattled the 
papers he'd brought. "The editorials are screaming. USA has a poll saying that 
eighty-two percent of the American public thinks you're nuts. ABC and NBC did 
overnight phone polls showing that you're now trailing Bush by sixty percent. 
CBS didn't even bother with that; by their poll, an even ninety percent of the 
public thinks you should flat out resign the nomination. As do L"
Devaughn did another turn of the deserted headquarters room.
"Jackson's really pissed, even if he's smoothing it over for you," he continued. 
"The committee wants your resignation in writing this morning. I told them I'd 
get it."
Gregg slumped in his chair. The television was replaying his-Tachyon's-breakdown 
again. Gregg got up and very calmly went to the set.
He kicked the picture tube in.
Devaughn raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. "Fuck the polls," Gregg 
said. He glowered at Devaughn as glass dribbled from his cuffs. "I don't believe 
in polls. Hell, let me debate Bush and I'll tear his nuts off. He's about as 
dynamic as dry toast. That'll turn the polls around."
"Bush won't debate you, Gregg. He won't come near a platform with you and he'll 
make you look like a fool when you insist. Resign, Gregg."
"Look, Charles, I'm the candidate. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what you 
or anyone else thinks. This convention elected me and by god, I'm running. I've 
got Jacksonhe's charismatic .."
"He'll also pull out of the ticket if you try to continue this charade," 
Devaughn sniffed like a prissy English lord. Like Tachyon. "You broke down, 
Gregg. America saw you on TV acting like a gibbering fool and they wonder how 
you'd react in a crisis in the White House. They don't want your finger on the 
button, Gregg. And frankly, neither do I."
"Damn it, that wasn't me that broke down, I tell you. It was Tachyon doing it. 
He took over my mind. I've told you that now a hundred times."
"So you say. You'll have a hell of a time proving it, though, won't you? 
Frankly, Gregg, that's going to sound like just another weak excuse. Or are you 
claiming Tachyon did it to you in '76, too?"
"Goddamn you!" Gregg roared. He pushed Devaughn with both hands, and the big man 
rocked backwards, a suddenly frightened look on his face. "I'm not resigning!"
"Take your hands of me, Gregg."
Gregg looked at Devaughn. With Puppetman, I'd make the bastard crawl . . He took 
a deep breath and stepped back. He rubbed his hands on his pants as if they were 
dirty. "I've made up my mind on this," he said softly.
Devaughn stared at him scornfully. "Then they'll reconvene the convention 
whether you like it or not. If you fight, you come out with nothing. You'll be 
made to look like a total ass. Resign, and maybe you can salvage at least your 
dignity from this mess. That's my final piece of advice for you, Senator." He 
stressed the last word mockingly.
Gregg went over to the couch, picture-tube glass crunching under his wingtips. 
He flung himself down on it. He cursed monotonously to himself, Devaughn 
watching silently.
When he finally looked up, the words he spat out tasted like ash.
"I've been hanging on with my damn fingertips, and now you're getting your kicks 
jumping up and down on them until I let go, aren't you? Well, you get your wish. 
Tell Tony to write the damn resignation," Gregg said. "He can write whatever he 
wants; I don't care. You read it-you'll get the most fucking pleasure out of it. 
And tell Amy to make arrangements to get me and Ellen out of Atlanta. I don't 
want to see any reporters. You got it?"
Devaughn sniffed. His gaze was scornful and superior, and Gregg ached to tear it 
from his face, but he didn't have the power anymore.
"Tell them yourself. I don't work for you anymore." Devaughn shook his head. "I 
had it all for you and you blew it. I'm going to see if Dukakis can use my 
talents. "
Devaughn left the room with prissy dignity. A Secret Service man stuck his head 
in, glanced at Gregg and the shattered glass on the rug, and shut the door 
again. Gregg sat there alone for a very long time.

9:00 A.M.
Somehow over the years he had managed to spend a lot of time in morgues. And no 
matter how beautifully appointed, how perfectly cleaned, nothing could hide the 
essential factthey were freezers for dead human meat.
"I appreciate your coming down here," the M.E. was saying as he led Tachyon into 
the operating room. His eyes slid to Tachyon's stump, and quickly away. 
"Especially after... but I've never seen anything like this, and you're the 
expert."
"No problem. It's sort of fitting somehow."
The M. E. helped him into gown and mask. They walked to the table. A wan-faced 
woman was clutching rib cutters to her chest, and eyeing the headless body with 
wary alarm.
The corpse had been slit from sternum to groin, the ribs cut and pulled- aside. 
But pale yellow fat was growing across the glistening intestines. The ribs were 
putting out bony tendrils. Skin had grown across the severed neck, and pooching 
up from the center of the neck, like a finger thrust into a drum, was a tiny 
bud. Tachyon bent in for a closer look. Fascinated and horrified and unable to 
stop himself.
"It's almost as if it's ... trying to ... to ... "
"To grow a new head, yes." Tach jerked back when he realized the embryonic head 
had eyes.
What if they suddenly opened? Would Demise's power remain? Would he make good 
his threat even from beyond the grave?
Stupid! He's always killed from beyond the grave. Bending Tachyon slid his 
dagger from its boot sheath, and jabbed it sharply into a buttock. The body 
arched and jerked. "Shit!" screamed the woman, and the M.E. didn't stop running 
until he reached the door.
Clinging to the swinging door, he stuttered, "Wha ... what the fuck is that?"
"A mistake. A major miscalculation on my part. My nemesis and a reminder not to 
play God. May I suggest that we dispense with the autopsy, and move straight to 
cremation?"
"Great. You'll get no argument from me. What about the ashes? Are there any next 
of kin?"
A humorless smile touched Tachyon's lips. "I suppose I stand in loco parentis. 
I'll take them."
"Doc, you are one weird dude," sighed the woman, and she snipped off a rib that 
had grown beyond the edge of the chest cavity.

10:00 A.M.
ACES BATTLE IN CONVENTION BLOODBATH
Sara winced and let the newspaper fall into mud drenched by firehoses and 
churned by a thousand feet of various descriptions.
You're right, damn you, she thought, in case Tachyon happened to be listening 
in. He wouldn't, though that Takisian honor of his. That damned expedient 
Takisian honor.
He'd laid it right on the line, as straightforwardly as he'd laid her Friday 
night, and even less gently: You cannot unmask Hartmann. It would hand the 
election to Barnett on a platter. How many innocent joker lives are you willing 
to spend on your vengeance?
"None," she said.
A couple of joker faces looked at her with shellshock blankness. None of them 
recognized her; she had a leopard mask on today. It had been lying in a gutter 
on Peachtree. The riot hadn't mashed it beyond usefulness.
Something crunched beneath her foot. She kicked at it until a sign emerged from 
the mud, hand-lettered at the JADL headquarters tent for last night's 
demonstration. The message almost made her smile.
Judas Jack, 1950
Traitor Tach, I988
Two of A Kind
With Mackie dead she'd been able to return to her own room. She was dressed 
today in blue jeans and a loose pale-blue blouse. She let her Reeboks carry her 
past a CBS remote van, where an earnest young black stringer was talking into a 
yellow-foam phallus.
"Piedmont Park remains virtually deserted after a night of rioting in which 
three hundred jokers were arrested. Several dozen jokers wander, as if dazed, 
among the trampled ruins of the tent city; Atlanta Mayor Andrew Young has 
rescinded his order that any jokers found on the street should be arrested on 
sight, following a personal plea in the early hours of this morning by 
Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis. Debate still rages over Governor 
Harris's refusal to declare martial law... "
They were few enough, but they were in a sense her people. She walked among them 
for the last time. No joker would trust her again, and she had sworn on her soul 
never to reveal the secret that would vindicate her in their eyes. For their 
sake she had to let them hate her.
For my sake. Unless I never plan to pass another mirror with my eyes open.
Tom Brokaw spoke to her from a portable television resting on an upturned ice 
chest and being ignored by a listless black joker with glowing blue carbuncles 
covering his face and such of his body as his coveralls left bare.
". uneasy truce that prevails between a mixed force of police and aces and 
several hundred joker demonstrators outside the Blythe van Renssaeler Clinic. ."
The camera cut to a sign supported either edge by six green sucker-tipped 
fingers: "The Knave of Hearts Beats Every Joker in the Deck." Then it panned to 
a joker Sara knew named Canker, for obvious reasons, with the beleaguered J-Town 
Clinic for backdrop.
"Aces are helping the pigs oppress jokers on this street," he told the camera, 
gesturing at the cordon that kept the protesters at bay. "An ace did Chrysalis 
and a joker stands to burn for it. It's us against them!"
Tachyon, Tachyon, did you know what you were sacrificing? She knew. That was one 
reason she was willing to burn her own career and reputation at his behest.
The other was that she had her vengeance, and nothing else mattered.
Puppetman was dead-that was what Hartmann called his power, Tachyon said. Demise 
had killed it, sucked it right out through Hartmann's eyes before :Mackie Messer 
decapitated him.
The evil wasn't dead; oh, no. No matter how much Gregg wept, how bitterly he 
protested his innocence. Puppetman had been the crystallization of Hartmann's 
lusts. Those lusts still lived.
But Gregg didn't have the ability to pull strings and make puppets dance to 
gratify his needs any more. That was what Demise had destroyed.
And Gregg would never have the balls to walk the night with a knife in his own 
hand.
Without his power, Gregg was trapped in hell. Sara no longer wished he'd die. 
Now she hoped he lived a long, long time.
She sat on an overturned trash can. Andi, she thought, this is vengeance, isn't 
it? You wouldn't want me to ruin the life of every wild card in America just to 
buy you a little more?
The spoiled little bitch probably would. But Andrea Whitman was dead now, too.
Sara shook out her winter-pale hair, smoothed it back from her face with her 
hands. A breeze blew across the park, almost cool. She lifted her head and 
looked out over the morning-after battlefield.
A black policeman rode around the outskirts of the park on a tall bay gelding. 
He watched her closely. A pig hunting more victims? A frightened man trying to 
do his job? It was a judgment call, and Sara Morgenstern was fresh out of 
judgments.
Victims .
Puppetman's strings were all cut. But Gregg Hartmann had one more victim left.
She stood up and left the park with a sense of purpose that tasted like an alien 
emotion to one who thought her purpose was all used up. She left the mask in a 
can that said Keep Atlanta Beautiful.
Tachyon closed the door to Gregg's suite behind him. Gregg looked up from the 
Samsonite suitcase he was packing. "Doctor," he said. "I'm surprised you came so 
quickly. Amy must have just called you a few minutes ago ..."
"I suppose I felt I owed it to you." The alien was holding himself in stiffly, 
his chin cocked forward over a ruffled lace collar and a paisley, electric-blue 
silk shirt. Despite the pose,
Tachyon was obviously on the edge of exhaustion. His skin was too pale, the eyes 
too sunken and hollow, and Gregg noticed that he held the stump of his hand 
behind him. " I feel no guilt about what I did to you. I would do it again, 
gladly."
Gregg nodded. He closed the suitcase, latched it, locked it. "I'm picking up 
Ellen at the hospital in a few hours," he said conversationally. Setting the 
luggage down on the floor, he gestured silently to a chair.
Tachyon seated himself. The lilac gaze was utterly expressionless. "Well, let us 
play it-the final scene in this little drama. But quickly. There are other 
people I need to see."
Gregg tried to stare him down. It was difficult to hold the alien's intense, 
unblinking gaze. "You can't say anything, you know. You still can't."
Tachyon grimaced and his eyes darkened as if in implicit threat.
"No, you won't," Gregg said softly. "You tell the press what you know about me 
and you prove that Barnett was right all along. There was a secret ace with his 
hands on the strings of the government. The wild card virus is something to be 
feared. The nats do need to do something to protect themselves from us. You 
talk, Doctor, and all the old laws will seem like freedom. I know you. I've had 
twenty years to watch you and learn how you think and how you respond. No, you 
won't talk. After all, that's why you did what you did last night."
"Yes, you are quite correct." Tachyon sighed and pressed his stump to his chest 
as if it pained him. "What I did went against all my principles-some old ones, 
and some newfound ones. It was not something I did lightly or at whim. You are a 
murderer and you should pay." He shook his head in weary frustration. "And ships 
should be stars, but they're not, and nothing can ever make them so."
"What the hell is that-the Takisian version of spilt milk?"Gregg paced across 
the room, then whirled to face the alien. "Look, you've got to know one thing. I 
didn't do it,"
Gregg told him. "Puppetman did it. The wild card power. All of it was the wild 
card. Not me. You don't understand what it was like to have him inside. I had to 
feed him or he'd destroy me. I'd have given anything to have rid myself of him, 
and now I have. I can make a fresh start, I can begin again-"
"What!" Tachyon's roar interrupted.
"Yes. Puppetman's dead. Last night on the podium, Demise took him. Look inside 
me, Doctor, and tell me what you see. You didn't have to ruin me; the evil was 
already gone. By the time you took my mind, I was free." Gregg studied his 
hands. A deep sorrow welled up in him, and he looked at Tachyon with eyes that 
shimmered with moisture. "I would have made a fine president, Doctor. Maybe even 
a great one." Tachyon gazed back with unyielding steel in his gaze.
"Gregg, there is no Puppetman. There never was a Puppetman. There was only Gregg 
Hartmann and his weaknesses, a man who was touched by an alien virus and was 
provided with a power whereby he could feed the darkest corners of his soul. 
Your problem is not that you are a wild card, Gregg. Your problem is that you 
are a sadist. This feeble excuse of yours is almost classic guilt transference. 
You constructed a shadow personality so you could pretend that somehow Gregg was 
still clean and decent. That is a child's trick. That is a child's deception, 
and you are smarter than that. "
Tachyon's harsh words were like a slap. Gregg flushed, angry that Tachyon would 
not understand. It was so obvious; it seemed impossible that Tachyon could not 
tell the difference.
"But he's (lead," Gregg cried in desperation. "I'll prove it to you. Go on," 
Gregg insisted. "I'm asking you to. Look inside me and tell me what you see."
Tachyon sighed. He closed his eyes, opened them. He turned away from Gregg, 
pacing the room silently for a long minute and then coming to a halt near the 
windows. When he looked at Gregg again, it was with a strange sympathy.
"You see, I told you," Gregg said, almost laughing with relief. "Puppetman died 
last night. And I'm glad. I'm so goddamn glad." Gregg felt the laughter becoming 
tinged with hysteria, and he took a deep breath. He looked at Tachyon, who 
stared at him sternly. Gregg raced to say the rest. "My god, the words are so 
fucking inadequate and stupid, but it's true. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all 
and I'd like to do what I can to start making up for it. Doctor, I've been made 
to do things that I hated. I lost a son because Gimli used Puppetman against me, 
I-"
"You are not listening to me. There was no Puppetman and Gimli died over a year 
ago. There was no Gimli either." It took several long seconds before the impact 
of those words sunk into Gregg. "What?" he stuttered, then the denial came 
fierce and desperate and angry. "You don't know what the hell you're saying, 
Doctor. Gimli's body died, but not his mind. He found his way into my son. He 
was in my head; he nearly made me lose any control of Puppetman at all-that's 
how all this started. He threatened me, said he was going to make Puppetman 
destroy me and my career."
"Gimli died a year ago," Tachyon repeated, relentlessly. "All of him. You made 
up his ghost yourself, the same way you made up Puppetman."
"You lie!" The word was a shout. Gregg's face was distorted with rage.
Tachyon just stared at him coldly. "I was in your head, Senator. You have no 
secrets from me. You are a disassociative personality. You've denied the 
responsibility for your own actions by creating Puppetman, and when that 
threatened to get out of hand, you needed another excuse: Gimli."
"No!" Gregg shouted again.
"Yes," Tachyon insisted. "I will tell you once more. There was never a Gimli, 
never a Puppetman. Just Gregg. Everything you did, you did yourself."
Hartmann shook his head wildly. His gaze was pleading, hurt and vulnerable. 
"No," he said softly. "Gimli was there." His eyes went suddenly wide and 
frightened. "I ... I wouldn't have killed my child, Doctor."
"You did," Tachyon said, and he saw in Gregg's eyes the deep wounds each word 
ripped into the man's soul, even though Gregg would not admit it. Already 
Hartmann was defiantly forcing himself into a semblance of calm and control. He 
smoothed his hair back with one hand.
"Doctor, I don't know what you want me to do. Even assuming that I gave any 
credence at all to what you're saying--"
"Get help."
Intent on his own words, Hartmann almost missed Tachyon's. "Hmm?"
"Get help, Gregg. Find a therapist. I'll find you a therapist-" Suddenly Tachyon 
realized how impossible that was. A therapist would have to be told too much, 
and it would all come out. Somehow, it could all unravel. Tachyon's face twisted 
in frustration. He did not like the only answer he could see. "We're going to 
spend a lot of time together, Gregg."
"What do you mean?"
"As of now, I am your physician. You are under my care." Gregg spat laughter, 
turning his back on the doctor. "No," he said. "Uh-uh. I don't need a damn 
shrink because Puppetman's gone. You're not even human, Doctor. I doubt you're 
particularly well-qualified to act as a psychologist."
"Consider it a compromise position. It will guarantee my silence."
"I tell you the power's gone, and the power was at fault."
"And we go around again? Admit the truth of what I'm telling you, Gregg. You 
won't even look at me. I saw your guilt, Gregg. You can deny-even to 
yourself-but I know the truth. It's time for you to start facing the reality."
Long silence stretched between them. Finally Gregg said, "All right, Doctor. 
I'll grant you a compromise politicians are used to them. Your silence for my 
business, huh? I suppose you'll need some paying customers when the funds are 
cut off."
Tachyon did not dignify the insult with a comment. "I will contact you as soon 
as I return to New York."
"Fine." Hartmann sighed. He tried to give that professional smile of his and 
failed. Walking over to the suitcase, he swung it o$' the bed.
"Well, this is it, then. I'm going to pick up Ellen. She's understandably 
confused and hurt by all of this." The selfconscious smile flashed again. "I'm 
going to tell her I'm sorry, too. Goodbye for now. I guess I'll be seeing you 
soon ..." Hartmann thrust out his hand to Tachyon.
Tachyon stared in bitter disbelief at the proferred hand. He wondered if this 
was not some final, cruel joke of Gregg's. Hey, all's forgiven. Let's shake and 
make up. Buddies again.
But I can't shake, you bastard. You saw to that. Hartmann suddenly realized what 
he'd done and yanked back his hand. He didn't say anything. He went to the door 
and opened it. They left the room together.
"Walk with me to the elevators?" asked Hartmann. "No."
"I'll be calling for that appointment, then."
Tachyon watched him walk away-a soft, overweight man with pale white scalp like 
wings where the hair had receded. He had always thought of Gregg as a dynamic, 
handsome man.
Now he realized that that too had been a function of his power. Was I wrong to 
speak the truth about his power? Perhaps it would have been better to simply let 
him believe in his possession by Puppetman and Gimli.
NO! He escaped punishment. I'm not going to let him escape the guilt.
But for all intents and purposes Puppetman was dead. Now it was up to Tachyon to 
keep it that way. Which meant he had to remain close to Gregg Hartmann. The 
thought was nauseating.
The alien walked to the stairwell. Sat down on the concrete step and leaned his 
head against the cold metal handrail. His arm was throbbing again, claws of pain 
that seemed to rip up his arm and into his shoulder. This might very well be the 
place where Jack had died, he thought wearily. And, right down there, Gregg 
killed his own child.
I'm dead too. But nobody's realized it yet because I'm still walking around.
Eight days in July. Eight days in which to lose so much: his oldest friendship 
on Earth; his belief and respect in Gregg Hartmann; the love and respect of his 
jokers.
His hand.
His innocence.
But jack hadn't died. And he wasn't dead yet either. "Stop feeling sorry for 
yourself, Tis, and get on with the business of living."
But I have to deal with Hartmann! his mind wailed. "Tough. Someday after he's 
dead and buried you can present a paper on him at the AMA." He began to climb 
the stairs.

11:00 A.M.
"I don't need it!"
"Stop being such a royal asshole, your Takisian excellency." Jack unfolded the 
chair and placed it by Tachyon's hotel bed.
"I've managed all morning without you or that damned wheelchair."
"Yeah, and look at you, you look like something the cat threw up."
"You should be out looking for Blaise," Tachyon said. He was propped up on 
pillows suffering whitely.
Jack sighed. "The police are looking for him. The FBI has been alerted. Even 
that fatuous jerk Straight Arrow is poking around. What can I do that they 
can't?"
Tachyon's face was haunted. His one hand clutched the bed covers. "I must find 
my grandson. I must. He's all I have left."
Jack sat on the room chair, and reached for a cigarette. "The police say he was 
with that Popinjay guy, that Jay Ackroyd, at the hospital Saturday night after 
your operation."
They were watching the TV in the waiting room. One- of the nurses remembers, 
that something on the TV caught their attention, and that Popinjay turned to 
Blaise and said "You wanna go play detective?' Or words to that effect."
"Ideal." Tachyon bit his lip. "If Popinjay has involved my grandchild in one of 
his intrigues ..."
"The police are trying to find out what channel they were tuned to." Jack shook 
his head. "I wasn't any help there either. I was partying Saturday night." 
Depression invaded him. "I thought the right candidate had got the nomination."
"I have been trying to phone Hiram," Tachyon said. "I thought he might have seen 
Blaise, but he's vanished too."
"He left yesterday morning."
"No he didn't. I inquired, and he hasn't checked out of the hotel. "
"I saw him in the lobby. He was carrying a trunk." Tachyon frowned. "Jay and 
Hiram are the closest of friends. If Ackroyd were in trouble, Hiram would be the 
person to whom he would turn." Tach dropped into a thoughtful silence.
"Since they're all missing they aren't going to be very much help to us. What 
you need is some rest."
Tachyon leaned back against the pillows. "You are right." He closed his eyes. 
"Perhaps I should try again to detect Blaise's mind signature. Would you please 
turn out the lights?"
"It might help my concentration." Almost inaudibly he added. "I am weary. So 
very weary."
"Will it disturb you if I have a belt of bourbon?"
"Not at all."
Jack turned out the light, leaving only the trickle of sunlight coming in under 
the drapes, and then he carried his cigarette in the direction of the bottles on 
Tachyon's table. He put some ice in a glass, then reached in the near darkness 
for one of the bottles. It turned out to be James Spector's ashes. He put the 
urn down and picked up another bottle. It seemed to have liquid of the right 
color. He poured.
Scotch. Damn.
It was sure one of those days.
It all felt very strange.
Gregg didn't know the Secret Service guards who rode with him in the rented limo 
on the way to Ellen's hospital. Their faces were unfamiliar and they didn't 
speak to him. They were strangers, hidden and masked by dark glasses, dark blue 
suits, and dark frowns.
They would always be strangers. Their minds were locked away and Gregg no longer 
had the key to open them. It felt very strange to be so silent in his own head, 
to be unable to sense the tidal flow of feelings around him, to find it 
impossible to swim in the bright salt ocean of emotion, to be powerless to 
change its swift currents.
This must be what it's like to go suddenly blind or deaf or mute. Then: 
Puppetman? he mind-called again, and again there was only the echo of his own 
thoughts.
Dead. Gone. Gregg sighed, feeling lost and sad and hopeful all at once, looking 
at the people around him, touching him, and yet isolated. Apart.
He didn't know if he'd ever get used to that.
All he wanted to do was get away from the furnace of Atlanta, to go back home 
and be alone and think. To see if he could heal some of the wounds and begin 
again.
It wasn't my fault. Not really. It was Puppetman and he's dead. That should be 
punishment enough.
Gregg didn't know exactly what he was going to say to Ellen. She, at least, had 
tried to comfort him yesterday. She at least had said that it was okay, that it 
didn't matter, that it would all be all right again. But behind the words, he 
knew she wanted to know why, and he didn't know how to explain it. Part of him 
ached to simply let the horrible, awful truth spill out and beg forgiveness. 
Ellen cared for him. He knew that from Puppetman; he had seen her love given to 
him even without the power's help.
Yes, he'd give her a part of the truth at least. He'd tell her that yes, he was 
an ace, that he'd abused his abilities to enhance his own power, that he'd 
manipulated people. Yes, even her.
But not all of it. Some of it couldn't be said. Not the death and the pain and 
the violence. Not what he'd done to her and their own child.
Not that, because then there'd be no hope at all. Ellen was the one thing Gregg 
could salvage from this wreckage. Ellen was the only person who would help him 
find a path.
Gregg needed her. He knew just how desperate that need was from the churning in 
his stomach and the cold fear in his gut.
"Senator? We're here."
They were at the side entrance of the hospital. The Secret Service riding in 
back with him pushed open the doors. Heat and sunshine hit Gregg like a fist as 
he got out, blinking behind his sunglasses. He leaned back into the cool, 
leather-scented interior to speak to the chauffeur. "We'll be back in a few 
minutes," he told him. "We're just going to get Ellen and her things-"
"Senator," one of the bodyguards outside said. "Isn't that her?"
Gregg straightened to see Ellen being wheeled out of the hospital behind a clot 
of reporters, her own Secret Service personnel keeping back the flurry of 
videocams and cameras. Gregg frowned, puzzled.
The heat rippling up from the blacktop went cold: behind Ellen, he could see 
Sara. She was standing inside, her face pressed against the glass doors.
"No," Gregg whispered. He half ran to Ellen, the Secret Service men pushing a 
path through the reporters around her. He saw her bag, sitting alongside the 
wheelchair.
She stood as he approached. Gregg smiled for the cameras and tried to ignore the 
specter of Sara just a few feet away. "Darling," he said to her. "Did Amy 
call-?"
Ellen looked into his face and his voice trailed off. Her examination of him was 
long and intense. Then she looked away. Her mouth was a straight, tight line, 
her dark eves were stern and solemn, and a bitter loathing lurked behind them. 
"I don't know if it's all true, what Sara said," Ellen husked out. "I don't 
know, but I can see something in you, Gregg. I only wish I'd seen it years ago." 
She was crying now, oblivious or uncaring of the reporters circled around them. 
"Damn you, Gregg. Damn you forever for what you did."
Her hand lashed out unexpectedly. The slap jerked Gregg's head around and 
brought tears of pain to his own eyes. He fingered the crimson flush on his 
cheek, stunned.
He could hear the cameras and the excited buzz of the reporters. "Ellen, please 
..." he began, but she wasn't listening.
"I need time, Gregg. I need to be away from, you." She took her bag and strode 
past him toward a waiting car. Behind the glass doors, Sara snagged Gregg's eyes 
as his hand dropped from his burning face.
Bastard, she mouthed silently, and turned away. "Ellen!" Gregg wheeled around, 
the image of Sara's accusation staving with him. "Ellen!"
She wouldn't look back. The driver placed her bag in the trunk. Her guards held 
the door open for her.
With Puppetman, Gregg could have made her stop. He could have had her run back 
into his arms in a glorious, happy reconciliation.
With Puppetman, he could have written a happy ending. Ellen got into the car and 
slumped back against the seat. They drove away.
12:00 NOON
The maitre d' was waiting in vain for his C-note. The hotel had emptied out, and 
the Bello Mondo was no longer crowded.
Jack had brought Tachyon to lunch, but he couldn't make him eat. Half a sole 
filet was abandoned on the plate. Jack finished off his New York cut.
"Eat, eat, my child. As my mom used to say in German."
"I'm not hungry."
"Build up your strength."
Tach glared at him. "Of the two of us," he said, "Which one is the doctor?"
"Which one of us is the patient?"
Tachyon's answer was stony silence. Jack took a drinkbourbon at last. Tachyon's 
violet eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Jack. My anxiety has rubbed away my manners."
"That's okay."
"I owe you my thanks. For this. For trying to find Blaise."
"I only wish I could find him." Jack put his elbows on the table and sighed. 
"I'd like something good to come out of everything we've been through."
"There might be something."
"A George Bush presidency, that's for sure." Jack stared at his plate. "That's 
the last political activity you're going to see from me. Every time I try to 
change the world, everything goes into the crapper."
Tachyon shook his head. "I have no thoughts to comfort you, Jack."
"All I did was screw up. I even died for god's sake. And the one thing I did 
right, I did for the wrong man." He took another drink. "I guess I'm about as 
confused as I've ever been. Hell " Another drink. "At least I'm rich. In this 
world, you can always fall back on money."
Jack leaned back against the cushion. "Maybe I'll write my memoirs. Get it all 
down. Then I'll maybe know what it means, if anything."
Memoirs, he thought. God, was he already that old? When Jetboy died, he'd been 
twenty-two and looking younger. He hadn't aged since then.
At least he'd seen a few things. Been a movie star. Changed the world, back 
before the roof fell in. Saved a lot of lives in Korea, and that was after he'd 
become a world-class fuckup. He'd even seen The Jolson Story.
As good a place as any, he reflected, to start his memoirs. When Jetboy died, I 
was watching The Jolson Story.
No one said anything for a long while. Jack realized that Tachyon had drowsed 
off. He paid the tab, then pushed the wheelchair out of the restaurant and 
headed for the elevators. On the way Jack saw the man who'd been selling gliders 
in the mall, table folded and his merchandise in a pair of paper sacks, talking 
to a friend. Jack parked the chair, then bought the entire line. When he came 
back, carrying his gliders, he saw that Tachyon was awake. He held up the 
gliders. "For Blaise," he said. "When we find him."
"Bless you, Jack."
For the first time in a week, Jack got an elevator right away. He pressed 
Tachyon's floor and the surge of vertigo as the glass elevator took off almost 
took him off his feet. To keep his mind off heights, he began assembling a 
glider.
A foam Earl Sanderson looked sternly at him from behind his flying goggles. Jack 
wondered dimly if, even after all these years, he had anything at all to say to 
Earl.
Besides an apology, of course. Better start with the basics. The elevator 
lurched, and Jack's stomach lurched with it. The doors opened, and with a shock 
Jack saw David Harstein step into the elevator.
Tachyon was rolling a guilty white-rimmed eye at him. Jack had a feeling his own 
face held the same expression of stupid, overdone innocence.
"You know," Tachyon said. "You know?" Jack replied.
"Hey, we all know," corrected David with hearty bonhomie.
The glass box lurched for the sky. Jack's stomach lurched with it. He could feel 
the sweat popping out on his forehead. He searched for something to say.
The elevator slammed to a stop again. The door opened and Fleur van Renssaeler 
stepped aboard, looking over her shoulder and waving goodbye to a friend. The 
door closed, and Fleur turned.
Everyone stopped breathing for a long moment. The elevator staggered upward. 
Suddenly Tachyon lashed out with his right arm, striking the STOP button with 
his bandaged stump.
The alien let out an animal-like howl of pain. David knelt quickly by the 
wheelchair as the elevator jerked to a halt. "Hush, it doesn't hurt."
And of course it didn't. Or at least it didn't matter.
Tachyon blinked hard to clear the moisture from his eyes.
"David Harstein," said Fleur, her voice expressionless.

Tach felt a chill go through him.
"Just now I remembered from when I was little." Fleur gave a thin smile. "The 
man who lost China to the Reds. And all these years you've just been hiding 
under that beard."
Smiling again, she turned to Jack. "An old friend of the family," she said 
scornfully.
The big ace yanked out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "It seemed like a 
good idea at the time," he said weakly. The glider of Earl Sanderson held limp, 
forgotten in Jack's hand. Tachyon reached out, and took it. He laid it gently in 
his lap.
"I count myself in nothing else so happy," David said, "as in a soul remembering 
my good friends."
Tach looked up at him. "Yes, all the ghosts have gathered."
Fleur stared hollow eyed at Tachyon. "I am not my mother!"
"You have your father's eyes," David said, his voice gentle.
It was a simple statement. No accusation. No hidden meaning. It left her 
confused, uncertain, the belligerence draining out of her. "You don't know me," 
Fleur whispered. "No," David said. "Sadly."
For a moment Fleur looked like she wanted to hug him. In fact, Tachyon wanted to 
hug him. Silence spun like cobwebs between the four of them. Fleur stared into 
David's compassionate dark eyes. Tears welled up, and spilled slowly down her 
cheeks. But the fear came back. She pressed her hands against her cheeks, and 
backed away. "No, don't do this to me."
Tachyon sighed. "We must speak, Fleur."
"I'm going to scream." Her voice was a frightened thread. "Please don't," David 
said. "You have nothing to be afraid of. "
Fleur quieted, but still managed to say, "No, I do have something to be afraid 
of. I'm alone with all of you."
"Are we so fearsome?" David asked. "An old actor, a one-handed man ..." He 
glanced back at Jack. "... and a weenie."
"Hey," Jack began, but then he paused and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he 
considered and then acknowledged the truth of Harstein's words.
Fleur hugged her elbows. "You don't understand. You honestly don't understand, 
do you?" The three men stared at her. "You stand there with these powers that 
can hurt us and twist us, and you wonder why we're afraid."
Jack looked with some confusion at the glider in Tach's hands. He spoke slowly, 
reaching hard for each word. "I think Earl would say you can't be afraid of 
people just because they're different, because you can never draw a clear line. 
Do you fear them because they've got the wild card, or because they have 
different beliefs, or because they have the wrong color skin ...?"
"I fear them because they can hurt me," Fleur insisted. "There are a lot of 
people who can hurt you," Jack said, "and very few of them have the wild card."
"Easy to say, when you're one of those who do," Fleur replied. "You know what 
you call the rest of us. The nats. Naturals, that's what it's supposed to be 
short for, but there's another meaning. Gnats. Little insects. Little bothersome 
insects waiting to be swatted by you. We're supposed to obey the laws, and treat 
you nicely. But those same laws don't apply to you. You don't have to be nice to 
gnats. Not with all your power."
"Fleur," said David. "You have all the power here. You hold my life in your 
hands."
Fleur hesitated a long time, looking at him. The wailing of the alarm was like 
an ice pick in the brain. "You don't have to worry," she said at last. "You're 
safe from me."
David nodded, as if he'd known that all along. "Start the elevator," he said 
quietly.
Tachyon slewed around awkwardly, and hit the button. The elevator shuddered and 
shot upward.
"Not to throw cold water on this love feast," Jack said to David, "but you do 
remember Mao? Mao Tse Tung, Chinese guy? Sooner or later we've got to let her 
off this elevator, and then she's going to blow the whistle."
"That is her right."
That shook Tachyon out of the dream state which seemed to hold him. "No."
David turned those dark eyes on him. "Yes." Gently. "I knew the risks. I've paid 
the price before. I'm prepared to pay again."
They reached her floor. The doors opened. She stepped out.
"Fleur, " Jack Braun said. "Think twice before you start naming names. I didn't. 
I'm still paying for it."
Fleur looked at them all for a long time. Tach wondered what she was thinking. 
Easy enough to find out. Better that he didn't. She walked off without saying a 
word.
The doors shut. Tachyon stared at the flashing numbers. "We must be crazy to let 
her walk off like that," Jack said. "You have to take a gamble on someone 
sometime," David replied.
"She's her father's daughter!" Jack said.
Tachyon stirred in his wheelchair, and handed the Earl Sanderson glider back to 
Jack. "And her mother's too."
The elevator, with its cargo of ghosts and survivors, continued its lunge for 
the sky.