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.