"Wish you had heeded me on the matter of your dress," murmured Quinn as he opened his briefcase.

"You told me to dress well. I did."

Quinn eyed the swallow-tailed coat and pants of pale peach, the vest embroidered in shades of green and gold, and the high soft boots with their gold tassels. "Black would have been better."

"I'm not a common laborer."

"Would you state your name for the committee," said Chairman Wood, without looking up from his papers.

He leaned in to the microphone. "I am known on your world as Dr. Tachyon."

"Your full and real name."

"You're quite certain you want that?"

"Would I ask it otherwise?" Wood grunted testily.

"As you wish." Smiling faintly, the alien launched into a recitation of his complete pedigree. "Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian. So ends my mother's line,"

"Omian being a relative newcomer to the Ilkazam clan having married in from the Zaghloul. My maternal grandfather was Taj brant Parada sek Amurath sek Ledaa sek Shahriar sek Naxina. His sire was Bakonur brant Sennari-"

"Thank you," Wood said hurriedly. He glanced down the table at his colleagues. "Perhaps for the purposes of this hearing we can make do with his nom de plume?"

"De guerre," he corrected sweetly, and enjoyed Wood's flush of irritation.

There followed several pointless and meandering questions about where he lived and worked; then John Rankin of Mississippi leaned in. "Now as I understand it, Dr. Tachyon, you are not a citizen of the United States of America."

Tach shot Quinn an incredulous glance. There were titters from the assembled journalists, and Rankin glared.

"No, sir."

"Then you are an alien." Satisfaction laced the words. "Undeniably," he drawled. Leaning nonchalantly back in the chair, he began to play with the folds of his cravat. Case of South Dakota stepped in. "And did you or did you not enter this country illegally?"

"There didn't seem to be an immigration center at White Sands, on the other hand I didn't ask, being concerned with more pressing matters at the time."

"But you have at no time during the intervening years applied for American citizenship?"

The chair scraped back and Tach was on his feet. "The Ideal grant me patience. This is absurd. I have no desire to become a citizen of your country. Your world I find compelling, and even if my ship were capable of hyperspatial travel I would remain because I have patients who need me. What I do not have is either the time or the inclination to bark and caper for the amusement of this ignorant tribunal. Please, carry on with your little games, but leave me to my work-"

Quinn pulled him bodily down into the chair, and laid a hand over the mike. "Just keep it up, and you'll be surveying this world from behind the walls of a federal penitentiary," he hissed. "Accept it now! These men have power over you and the means to exercise it. Now apologize, and let's see what we can salvage from this mess."

He did so, but with poor grace, and the questioning continued. It was Nixon of California who brought them to the heart of the matter.

"As I understand it, Doctor, it was your family who developed this virus that has cost so many people their lives. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

He cleared his throat, and said more audibly this time, "Yes."

"And so you came-"

"To try and prevent its release."

"And what corroboration do you have for this claim, Tachyon?" granted Rankin.

"My ship's logs detailing my exchange with the crew of the other ship."

"And can you obtain these logs?" Nixon again. "They're on my ship."

An aide skittered up onto the platform, and there was a hurried conference. "Reports indicate that your ship has resisted all efforts to enter."

"It was so ordered."

"Will you arrange to open it, and allow the Air Force to remove the logs?"

"No." They regarded each other for a long moment. "Will you return my ship, and then I'll bring you the logs?"

"No."

He fell back once more in the chair and shrugged. "Well, they wouldn't have done you much good anyway; we weren't speaking English."

"And what about these other aliens? Can we question them?" Rankin's mouth twisted as if he were regarding something peculiarly unpleasant and slimy.

"I'm afraid they're all dead." His voice dropped as he again struggled with the guilt the memories still brought. "I misjudged their determination. They fought the grappler beam, and broke up in the atmosphere."

"Very convenient. So convenient that I wonder if it wasn't planned that way?"

"It was Jetboy's failure that released the virus."

"Do not sully the name of that great American hero with your slanderous lies!" Rankin shouted, winding up into his full Southern-preacher mode. "I submit to this committee and to the nation that you have remained on this world to study the effects of your evil experiment. That those other aliens were acting as kamikazes ready to die so that you might appear a hero, and live among us accepted and revered, but that in fact you are an alien subversive seekin' to undermine this great nation by the use of these dangerous wild elements."

"No!" He was on his feet, hands braced on the table, leaning in on his inquisitors. "No one regrets the events of '46 more than I. Yes, I failed… failed to stop the ship, failed to locate the globe, failed to convince the authorities of the danger, failed to help Jetboy, and I must live with that failure for the rest of my life! All I can do is offer myself… my talents, my experience working with this virus, to undo what I have created-I'm sorry… sorry." He broke off, choked, and sipped gratefully at the water offered by Quinn.

The heat was like a tangible thing, coiling about his body, stealing the breath from his lungs, and leaving him lightheaded. He willed himself not to faint, and pulling the handkerchief from his pocket he wiped at his eyes, and knew he had made another mistake. Males in this culture were trained to suppress emotion. He had just violated another of their taboos. He dropped heavily back into the chair.

"If you are indeed repentant, Dr. Tachyon, then demonstrate it to this committee. What I require from you is a complete list of all the so-called 'aces' you have ever treated or heard about. Names… addresses if possible, and-"

"No."

"You would be assistin' your country."

"It's not my country, and I won't help you in your witchhunts."

"You are in this country illegally, Doctor. Could be that it's in the best interests of this nation if you were deported. So I'd think over your answer very carefully if I were you."

"it requires no further thought… I will not betray my patients."

"Then the committee has no further questions of this witness. "

At the front doors of the Capitol they walked full into a pale, sharp-featured man.

A tiny sound escaped Blythe, and she clutched at Tach's arm.

"Afternoon, Henry," grunted Quinn, and the alien realized that this was the husband of the woman who had shared his bed and his life for two and a half years.

He seemed familiar. Tach had been contending with this persona every time he joined with Blythe in telepathic or physical union. Granted, Henry had been relegated to an unused corner of her mind like discarded lumber in a dusty attic, but the mind was there, and it wasn't a very nice mind. "Blythe."

"Henry."

He raked Tachyon with a cold glance. "If you would excuse us, I'd like to talk to my wife."

"No, please, don't leave me." Her fingers plucked at his coat, and he carefully freed them before she could utterly ruin the crease, and clasped her hand warmly in his.

"I think not."

The congressman gripped his shoulder, and shoved. It was an error in judgment. Small he might be, but Tachyon had studied with one of the finest personal-defense masters on Takis, and his response was almost more reflexive than conscious. He didn't bother with martial arts subtlety, just brought his knee up, nailing van Renssaeler in the nuts, and as the other man folded, his fist took him in the face. The congressman hit the ground like he'd been poleaxed, and Tach sucked at his knuckles.