"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."