"Well, I have only just arrived." He fingered his lapel, raised his eyes, and pinned de Valmy with a sharp glance.

"And will I be reporting to all the candidates in the race? Will they also wish to hear my comments?"

Senator Hartmann took a small step forward, but de Valmy was laughing. "You are very astute. Yes, I am-how do you Americans say-counting my chickens."

"With reason," said Hartmann with a smile. "You've been groomed by the President as his heir apparent."

"Certainly an advantage," said Tachyon. "But your status as an ace hasn't hurt."

"No."

"I would be curious to know your power."

De Valmy covered his eyes. "Oh, Monsieur Tachyon, I'm embarrassed to speak of it. It's such a contemptible little power. Mere parlor tricks."

"You are very modest, sir."

Hartmann's aide glared, and Tach stared blandly back, though he regretted the momentary flash of sarcasm. It was ill bred of him to take out his weariness and unhappiness on others.

"I am not above using the advantage granted to me, Doctor, but I hope that it will be my policies and leadership that will give me the presidency."

Tachyon gave a small laugh and caught Gregg Hartmann's eye. "It is ironic, is it not, that in this country the wild card bestows a cachet to help a man into high office, while in our country that same information would defeat him."

The senator pulled a face. "Leo Barnett."

"I beg you pardon?" asked de Valmy in some confusion. "A fundamentalist preacher who's gathering quite a following. He'd restore all the old wild card laws."

"Oh, worse than that, Senator. I think he would place them in detention camps and force mass sterilizations."

"Well, this is an unpleasant subject. But on another unpleasant subject I'd like a chance to talk to you, Franchot, about your feelings on the phaseout of medium-range missiles in Europe. Not that I have any standing with the current administration, but my colleagues in the Senate…" He linked arms with de Valmy and they drifted away, their various aides trailing several paces behind like hopeful pilot fish.

Tach gulped down champagne. The chandeliers glittered in the long line of mirrors, multiplying them a hundredfold and throwing back bright light like shards of glass into his aching head. He took another swallow of champagne, though he knew the alcohol was partly to blame for his present discomfort. That and the drilling hum of hundreds of voices, the busy scrape of bows on strings, and outside, the watching presence of an adoring public. Sensitive telepath that he was, it beat on him like an urgent, hungry sea.

As the motorcade had driven up the long chestnut-lined boulevard, they had passed hundreds of waving people all eagerly craning for a glimpse of the les ases fantastiques. It was a welcome relief after such hatred and fear in other countries. Still, he was glad that only one country remained, and then he would be home. Not that anything waited for him there but more problems.

In Manhattan, James Spector was on the streets. Death incarnate stalking free. Another monster created by my meddling. Once home I must deal with this. Trace him. Find him. Stop him. I was so stupid to abandon him in favor of pursuing Roulette.

And what of Roulette? Where can she be? Did I do wrong to release her? I am undoubtedly a fool where women are concerned.

"Tachyon." Peregrine's gay call floated on the strains of Mozart and pulled him from his introspective fog. "You've got to see this."

He pinned a smile firmly in place and kept his eyes strictly off the mound of her belly thrust aggressively front and center. Mordecai Jones, the Harlem auto repairman, looking uncomfortable in his tuxedo, nervously eyed a tall gold-and-crystal lamp as if expecting it to attack. The long march of mirrors brought back thoughts of the Funhouse, and Des, the fingers at the end of his elephant's trunk twitching slightly, heightened the memory. The past. It seemed to be hanging like a dead weight from his shoulders.

The knot of friends and fellow travelers parted, and a hunched, twisted figure was revealed. The joker lurched around and smiled up at Tach. The face was a handsome one. Noble, a little tired, lines about the eyes and mouth denoting past suffering, a kindly face his, in fact. There was a shout of laughter from the group as Tach gaped down into his own features.

There was a shifting like clay being mashed or a sponge being squeezed, and the joker faced him with his own features in place. A big square head, humorous brown eyes, a mop of gray hair, set atop that tiny, twisted body.

"Forgive me, the opportunity was too enticing to pass up," chuckled the joker.

"And your expression the best of all, Tachy," put in Chrysalis.

"You can laugh, you're safe. He can't do you," harrumphed Des.

"Tack, this is Claude Bonnell, Le Miroir. He's got this great act at the Lido."

"Poking fun at the politicos," rumbled Mordecai.

"He does this hysterical skit with Ronald and Nancy Reagan," giggled Peregrine.

Jack Braun, drawn by the laughing group, hovered at its outskirts. His eyes met Tachyon's, and the alien looked through him. Jack shifted until they were at opposite sides of the circle.

"Claude's been trying to explain to us this alphabet soup that's French politics," said Digger. "All about how de Valmy has welded an impressive coalition of the RPR, the CDS, the JJSS, the PCF-"

"No, no, Mr. Downs, you must not include my party among the ranks of those who support Franchot de Valmy. We communists have better taste, and our own candidate."

"Who won't win," ejected Braun, frowning down at the tiny joker.

The features blurred, and Earl Sanderson Jr. said softly, "There were some who supported the goals of world revolution." Jack, face gone sickly white, staggered back. There was a sharp crack as his glass shattered in his hands, and a flare of gold as his biological force field came to life to protect him. There was an uncomfortable silence after the big ace had left, then Tachyon said coolly, "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"You are here as a wild card representative?"

"Partly, but I also have an official capacity. I am a member of the party congress."

"You are a big wheel with the commies," whistled Digger with his usual lack of tact.

"Yes."

"How did you pick up Earl? Or have you just made it a point to study those of us on the tour?" asked Chrysalis.

"I have a very low-level telepathy. I can pick up the faces of those who have deeply affected a person."

Hartmann's aide was once again at his side. "Doctor, Dr. Corvisart has arrived and wants to meet you."

Tachyon made a face. "Duty calls, so pleasure must be forgone. Gentlemen, ladies." He bowed and walked away. An hour later Tach was standing by the small chamber orchestra, allowing the soothing strains of Mendelssohn's Trout quintet to work its magic. His feet were beginning to hurt, and he realized that forty years on Earth had robbed him of his ability to stand for hours. Recalling long-past deportment lessons, he tucked in his hips, pulled back his shoulders, and lifted his chin. The relief was immediate, but he decided that another glass would also help.

Flagging down a waiter, he reached for the champagne. Then staggered, and fell heavily against the man as a blinding, directionless mind assault struck his shields.

Mind control! The source? Outside… somewhere. The focus?

He was dimly aware of crashing glasses as he slumped against his startled support. Forced up lids that seemed infinitely heavy. So distorting was the effect of his own psi-search, and the screaming power of the mind control, that reality took on a strange shifting quality. The reception guests in their bright finery faded to gray. He could "see" the mind probe like a brilliant line of light. Becoming diffuse at its source, impossible to pinpoint. But haloing: