While he spoke, half of his mind was condemning the obsession that had put him and Jennifer in this desperate situation, and half was wondering about the palace and Chrysalis's downstairs neighbors, and how he could get by the police surrounding the place.

When he finished the tale, there was a slow, measured knocking on the rectory door. Father Squid went to answer it and let in a tall black man who looked like a resurrectionist out of a Boris Karloff movie. Mr. Bones was old, thin, and gaunt. He wore a white shirt and an old black suit that was clean and neatly repaired, but much too short for his long, lanky limbs.

This joker wasn't severe as things went. In fact, the two feathery antennae growing out of his forehead were rather attractive. They twitched like ferns blowing in a gentle breeze as Father Squid introduced him to Brennan.

"This the patient?" Bones asked as he knelt down before Jennifer. He stripped the blanket off her. As he took her pulse he bent very close to her and moved his head up and down her body. His antennae twitched and rotated like sensitive radar receptors.

"How is she, doctor?" Brennan asked quietly.

"I'm not a doctor," Bones replied, still running his antennae over Jennifer. After a moment he rocked back on his heels and looked at Brennan and Father Squid. "Her system's had quite a shock. Right now all we can do for her is let her rest." He covered her with the blanket and stood up. "And hope for the best."

4:00 P.M.

"So, Nephi," Jay said, leaning against the hood of Jesse Jackson's limo. Tachyon was inside the Hyatt Regency, conferring with his new candidate, and Ackroyd was getting tired of waiting. "The feds pay good, or what?"

Jesse Jackson's ace bodyguard looked at him like he was some kind of canker sore. He was a tall thin Mormon with a receding hairline, a gaunt chiseled face, and the best damn posture Jay had ever seen. The press called him Straight Arrow; the nameplate over his breast pocket said NEPHI CALLENDAR. "Some of us are not interested in personal gain," he told Jay. "Some of us are just grateful for a chance to serve God and our country"

Jay smiled. "Yeah, sure. And some of you just like to beat people up, right?"

Straight Arrow frowned and looked away.

"Heard that Carnifex got in some kind of brawl Sunday night," Jay said casually. "Or maybe it was Monday morning. Really pounded the shit out of some guy."

"Is that a fact?" Callendar did not seem terribly interested. "I wouldn't know. I'm sure no more force was applied than was appropriate to the situation. Ray is an experienced agent with an outstanding record."

"A hell of a dresser, too," Jay said. "Me, I don't think I could wear all that white. It's a bitch to keep clean. I like your outfit a lot better." The Mormon ace wore a tailored gray dress uniform. It looked very crisp and proper and military, until you picked up on the justice Department insignia on the sleeves and the dark red braid on cap and shoulder boards. His collar was fastened with a jeweled pin fashioned in the shape of a flaming arrow. "Free laundry service come with the job, or you guys have to pay the dry cleaning yourself?" Jay wanted to know.

Straight Arrow took a long pointed look at Jay's puce suit. "I'd recommend burning, not cleaning," he said. "Funny man," Jay said. "These are Tachy's. I think he wants them back, don't ask me why."

"Why all the interest in laundry, Ackroyd?"

"When my face got rearranged, I bled all over my lucky shirt." The bruises were a delightful greenish yellow shade today. "You know how it is when you got a lucky shirt. I figured you feds might know a place where I could get it cleaned. I hear that Carnifex had blood all over him after his little fracas on Sunday night."

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Ackroyd," Callendar told him. "As far as I know, Ray was with Senator Hartmann Sunday night, as per his assignment. If a situation arose requiring him to use force, regulations would have required that he file a report. No such report is on file." Before Jay could reply, Tachyon emerged through the front door of the Hyatt, Jesse Jackson at his side. The sidewalk was crowded with Jackson supporters waving bright red JESSE! signs. Straight Arrow's eyes moved restlessly, scanning the faces, as the two men clasped hands and lifted them over their heads. The black man was so much taller that Tachyon had to stand on his toes.

A ragged cheer went up, then Jackson and Tachyon headed for the limo, smiling and shaking hands as the spectators crowded in around them. Jackson pressed the flesh with practiced ease, but Tachyon looked distinctly uncomfortable. "What now?" Jay asked Tachyon when he reached the limo.

"Jesse wants us to talk to the jokers outside the Omni," Tachyon explained. He was wilting in the Atlanta heat. "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 thought about it for a moment. As far as he knew, he didn't have a single lead that was worth a damn. He shrugged. "Might as well," he said, "can't dance."

Inside the limo, the air-conditioning was cranked up and cooking, but Tachyon wilted visibly once out of the public eye. Even Jay could see how much he dreaded facing the jokers who had gathered in front of the convention center, many of whom considered him a traitor for deserting Hartmann in his hour of need. "They hate me now," he said with despair, glancing through the tinted windows at the crowds.

"Only some," Jackson said as the limo came to a stop. "It's not as if you switched your support to Barnett. I'm not that unacceptable, am

I?"

"Not to me." Tachyon squeezed Jesse's arm. Jay wasn't sure who was reassuring whom. "And you will convince them. I know it."

"Well, help me a little."

"I will do my uttermost best," Tachyon declared.

The limo doors were thrown open, and they climbed out one by one. Secret Service men in dark suits and sunglasses were watching the crowd suspiciously, and a squad of uniformed cops had cordoned off a narrow path from the limo to the flatbed truck, hung with red Jackson banners, where the microphones were waiting. Jokers pressed closely around them on all sides. Some stared in dead silence. Others grinned and yelled out their support. Still others screamed obscenities. Everyone was cooking in the heat.

"How can they hate them so?" Tachyon asked plaintively of no one in particular. "They are pitiful, and so brave. So very brave."

The cops struggled to hold back that sea of twisted humanity as the jokers surged forward. Slowly, the party began to make its way down to the truck. Hands were thrust at them from all sides, between the linked arms of the policemen, over their shoulders, around their backs. Jesse moved along one side of the line, grabbing each hand in turn, giving it a quick squeeze, then moving on to the next. Tachyon, less enthusiastic, worked the other side. An elderly man with gills spat in his face. Others tried to kiss his ring.

Jay kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, several paces behind. Straight Arrow walked beside him, keeping a careful eye on Jackson. The ace's broad forehead was dotted with sweat.

Overhead the. Turtle slid across the sky. Sometime during the night someone had painted HARTMANN! across his shell in silver letters three feet high.

A vast, pale wall of moon-faced flesh suddenly loomed up behind two policemen, broke through the cordon, and waddled toward Tachyon. Secret Service men reached for their pistols. "No, it's okay," Jay said, "that's Doughboy. He's simple-minded, but he won't hurt him." Straight Arrow weighed Jay's words, gave a curt nod. The Secret Service relaxed. Doughboy and Tachyon exchanged a few quiet words. The alien looked like he was going to break down and cry.