"You'll be needing a White House chef, too."

Gregg laughed heartily at that. "You'll need to speak to Carter or Kennedy about that, Hiram. I'm just one of the dark horses in this one."

"Then they're passing by the best man," Hiram retorted. He strode off.

The Aces High occupied the observation tower of the Empire State Building. From the expansive windows, the diners could gaze out to a view of Manhattan Island. The sun touched the horizon beyond the city harbor; the golden dome of the Empire State Building tossed reflections into the dining room. In the gold-green sunset, Dr. Tachyon was not difficult to spot, seated at his customary table with a woman Gregg did not recognize. Hiram had been right, Gregg saw immediately-Tachyon wore a dinner jacket of blazing scarlet trimmed with a collar of emerald-green satin. Purple sequins traced bold patterns on the sleeves and shoulders; mercifully, his pants were hidden, though a band of iridescent orange could be glimpsed under the jacket. Gregg waved, Tachyon nodded. "John, please take our guests over to the table and make introductions for me. I'll be over in a second. Amy, would you come with me?" Gregg threaded his way through the tables.

Tachyon's shoulder-length hair was the same improbable red as his jacket. He ran a dainty hand through the tangled locks as he rose to greet Gregg. "Senator Hartmann," he said. "May I present Angela Fascetti? Angela, this is Senator Gregg Hartmann and his aide Amy Sorenson; the senator's the man responsible for much of the funding of my clinic."

After a few pleasantries, Amy excused herself. Gregg was pleased when Tachyon's companion took the hint without any prompting from Amy and left the table with her. Gregg waited until the two women were a few tables away and then turned to Tachyon. "I thought you'd like to know that we've confirmed the plant in your clinic, Doctor. Your suspicions were right."

Tachyon frowned, deep lines creasing his forehead. "KGB?"

"Probably," Gregg answered. "But as long as we know who he is, he's relatively harmless."

"I still want him out of there, Senator," Tachyon insisted politely. He steepled his hands before his face, and when he glanced at Gregg, his lilac eyes were full of an old hurt. "I've had enough difficulty with your government and their previous witch-hunts. I want nothing to do with another. I mean no offense by that, Senator; you've been a good man with whom to work and very helpful to me, but I'd rather keep the clinic entirely away from politics. My desire is to help the jokers, nothing more."

Gregg could only nod at that. He resisted an impulse to remind the doctor that the politics he claimed he wished to avoid also paid some of the clinic's bills. His voice was laden with sympathy. "That's my interest as well, Doctor. But if we simply fire the man, the KGB will have a new plant in place within a few months. There's a new ace working with us; I'll talk with him."

"Do whatever you wish, Senator. I'm not interested in your methods so long as the clinic remains unaffected."

"I'll see that it is."

Across the room, Gregg saw Amy and Angela making their way toward them.

"You're here to meet with Tom Miller?" Tachyon inred, one one eyebrow arching. He nodded his head slightly in the direction of Gregg's table, where John was still making introductions.

"The dwarf? Yes. He's-"

"I know him, Senator. I suspect he's responsible for quite a lot of death and violence in Jokertown in recent months. He's a bitter and dangerous man, Senator."

"That's exactly why I want to forestall him."

"I wish you luck," Tachyon commented dryly.

The New York Times, July 14, 1976

Sondra Falin felt mixed emotions as Gregg Hartmann approached the table. She'd known that she was going to face this difficulty tonight and perhaps had drunk more than she should have. The liquor burned in her stomach. Tom Miller "Gimli," as he preferred to be called in the JJS-fidgeted next to her, and she laid an unsteady hand on the thick muscles of his forearm.

"Keep your fucking paws off me," the dwarf growled. "You ain't my goddamn grandmother, Sondra."

The remark stung her more than it otherwise might have; she could only look down at her hand; at the dry, liverspotted skin hanging loose over thin bones; at the swollen and arthritic knuckles. He'll look at me and smile like a stranger and I can't tell him. Tears stung her eyes; she wiped at them savagely with the back of her hand, then drained the glass that sat before her. Glenlivet: it seared her throat all the way down.

The senator beamed at them. His grin was more than just the professional tool of a politician-Hartmann's face was natural and open, inviting confidence. "Excuse my rudeness in not coming right over," he said. "I'd like to say that I'm very glad that the two of you agreed to meet with me tonight. You're Tom Miller?" Gregg said, turning to the bearded visage of the dwarf, his hand extended.

"No, I'm Warren Beatty and this here's Cinderella," Miller replied sourly. His voice had the twang of the Midwest. "Show him your slipper, Sondra." The dwarf cocked his head belligerently at Hartmann, pointedly ignoring the hand.

Most people would have ignored the insult, Sondra knew. They would have drawn back their hand and pretended that it had never been offered. "I met Mr. Beatty last night at the Rolling Stone party," the senator said. He smiled, his hand the focus of attention around the table. "I even managed to shake his hand."

Hartmann waited. In the silence, Miller grumbled. At last the dwarf took Hartmann's fingers in his own ham-fisted grip. With the touch, Sondra seemed to see Hartmann's smile go cold for a moment, as if the contact had pained him slightly. He quickly let go of Miller's hand. Then his composure returned. "Good to meet you," Hartmann said. There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, only a genuine warmth, a relief.

Sondra understood how she had come to love this man. It's not you who loves him; it's only Succubus. She's the one Gregg knows. To him, you're just an old, shriveled woman whose politics are in question. He'll never know that Succubus is the same person, not if you want to keep him. All he'll ever see is the fantasy Succubus makes for him. That's what Miller said we have to do, and you'll obey him, won't you?

No matter how much it hurts you.

Now it was her turn to shake Gregg's hand. She felt her fingers trembling as they touched; Gregg noticed it as well, for a faint sympathy seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. Still, there was only curiosity and interest in his gray-blue eyes; no recognition beyond that. Sondra's mood darkened again. He's wondering what horrible things afflict this old woman. He wonders what ugliness is sitting inside me, what horrors I might reveal if he knew me.

She reached for the glass of scotch.

Her mood continued to deepen throughout the meal. The pattern of conversation seemed set. Hartmann would introduce a topic, and Miller would respond with unjustified sarcasm and scorn, which in turn the senator smoothed over. Sondra listened to the interplay without joining in. The others around the table evidently felt the same tension, for the stage remained open for the two chief players, with the others inserting their lines as if on cue. The dinner, despite the hovering solicitude of Hiram, tasted like ashes in her mouth.

Sondra drank more, watching Gregg. When the mousse was set aside and the conversation turned serious, Sondra was quite well drunk. She had to shake her head to clear the fog. .".. need you to promise that there will be no public displays," Hartmann was saying.

"Shit," Miller replied. For a moment, Sondra thought that he might actually spit. The sallow, pitted cheeks under Gimli's ruddy beard swelled and his maniacal eyes narrowed.