"Then I won't see him. This convention is tOO close already."

"Drink?"

"No, thank you. I think I'll head over to the convention center."

Jack started up the stairs. Tachyon stared at that broad back and powerful shoulders and wondered if he could shift some of his burdens onto those shoulders.

"Jack."

Something of his confusion and fear must have penetrated, for Braun paused part way up the stairs, and walked slowly back down. Laying his hands on Tachyon's shoulders, he frowned down at the smaller man. "What? What's wrong?"

"Do you think… do you think it's possible for one of the candidates to be an ace?"

"What, here?"

"Yes, of course here! No, the candidate for dog catcher in Shawnee, Oklahoma. Don't be an imbecile!"

"I'm not, you just took me off guard, that's all. Why? You got something?"

"No," he said airily, and suspicion flared in the big ace's blue eyes.

"It's hooey… bunk. Nobody could keep a thing like that hidden from the press. Remember Hart."

"He was careless."

"Look, if you're worried check it out. You could do it easily enough."

"Yes, but information received telepathically is not admissible evidence. Also, given the current climate in this country, what would they do if they discovered I had been using alien mind powers on potential presidential candidates?"

"Hang your skinny alien ass out to dry."

"Precisely." Tach shrugged. "Well, never mind. I just thought I'd mention it… get your opinion…" His voice trailed away into silence.

"Forget it, Tachy." Jack gave him a shake. "Okay?"

"Okay. "

"Now I'm going to get that drink."

"Don't be too long," Tach yelled after him. "Oh, go to hell."

"American whiskey. Straight up. A double. Two doubles."

"Hard day, sir?"

"Hard liquor for a hard day," Jack said. He lowered his briefcase to the ground and noticed for the first time-what was wrong with him anyway?-that the petite blonde waitress here in the atrium lounge was really quite attractive. He gave her the Hollywood smile that he'd practiced in countless mirrors throughout the late forties. "They've probably got you working overtime, too," he said. "Call me Jack, by the way."

"Overtime sucks, Jack," she said, and waggled away with a swing to her hips that hadn't been in evidence for any of her other customers. Jack began to feel slightly better.

After the Secret Service had testified to his bona fides and let him go, Jack spent most of the morning telling his delegates thev were about to have their votes taken away if they didn't look out. Then Tachyon had harassed him for not doing his job, handed him the jive about a secret ace; and the campaign parliamentarian Logan, who was supposed to meet him here in the Marriott lounge, was already late.

The cheerful waggle of a waitress's butt, he thought, is enough to give a man heart for the struggle. Flying Ace gliders swooped overhead in dancing accompaniment to his thoughts.

The waitress brought his drinks. He chatted with herher name was Jolynn-and tossed down the first drink. Logan still hadn't showed. Jolynn had to leave to see to another customer, and Jack tipped her ten dollars, reflecting that all in all he enjoyed being rich, even at the cost of having to pretend intelligent conversation with a chimpanzee on TV for four years. He watched as a young man in a white dinner jacket crossed the atrium lounge to the white piano, then sat down and banged out the opening chords to "Piano Man." Jack felt his head try to retreat, like that of a turtle, between his shoulders.

Moss Hart, Jack thought desperately. Kurt Weill. George and Ira Gershwin. Richard Rodgers-Jack could still remember the opening night of South Pacific.

Maybe he could just tip the guy a hundred bucks and tell him not to play anything.

"Honky Tonk Women" was next, followed by "New York, New York." Where, Jack thought, was Morrie Ryskind when you needed him?

Logan still hadn't showed up. Jack sipped his second drink and stared fixedly at Jolynn's heart-shaped ass as it perambulated about the other end of the lounge.

Then another female form drew his attention. Sluts on the right, he thought, an expression he'd acquired decades ago in Camp Shenango.

The woman was walking right for him.

Then he saw she was wearing a Barnett button. A slut for the Lord, he concluded.

Then he recognized her. She was Leo Barnett's campaign manager-that was bad enough-but there was an old score between them that made everything far worse.

Oh, god.

The piano struck up the opening bars of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." Another whole set of memories invaded him, including being spat on the year before in Buenos Aires by a female Peronista.

Jack rose, his heart sinking like a lead plummet, and prepared his face for more spittle.

"Jack Braun? You have no idea how long I've looked forward to meeting you again."

IT just bet, Jack thought.

The voice, he realized, was different. Blythe had had a New York patroon accent of the kind that didn't exist anymore, that had died with Franklin and Eleanor. And Blythe would have worn red lipstick like all the women did in the forties, a bright crimson contrast to her pale face and dark hair. "Fleur van Renssaeler, I presume," Jack said. "I'm surprised you remember me."

Which was the civil thing to say, but perfectly ridiculous. According to some, Jack had murdered her mother, and Fleur must have found that impossible to forget even if she wanted to.

The heart-shaped face tilted far back to look him in the face. " I was-how little? Three or four?"

"Something like that."

"I remember you playing with me on the floor of my father's house."

Jack gazed at her with a face of stone. She was dragging this out incredibly. Why didn't she spit on him or claw his face or otherwise get it over with?

"I've always wanted to say how much I admire you," Fleur said. "You've always been one of my heroes."

Shock ran like cold fire through Jack's veins. It wasn't that he believed in the sincerity of the words… the shock came from the fact that Blythe's daughter would prove this adept at sadism.

"I hardly deserve it." Truthfully.

She smiled. It was a very warm smile. He realized she was standing very close, and his groin tingled at the thought she might try to bring her knee up between his legs. His wild card would keep him from harm, but old reflexes died hard.

"Aside from the Reverend Barnett," Fleur said, "you're the bravest man I know. You risked everything to bring down the aces and… that alien. I think you've been treated shamefully ever since. After all, your whole career was wrecked by those Hollywood liberals."

Jack's thoughts dragged with glacial slowness. She was, he realized dumbly, absolutely sincere. Something cold crept like a stalking insect up his back.

"I'm.. surprised," he said.

"Because of my mother?" She was still smiling, still standing close. Jack wanted to run as fast as his legs would carry him.

"My mother was willful and obstinate. She deserted my father to whore with… that alien creature. The one who brought us the plague." She couldn't say Tachyon's name, he realized. "I was well-rid of her," she went on, "and so were you. "

Jack remembered he was holding his drink in his hand. He took a long swallow, needing the bite of the whiskey to return his staggered senses to reality.

"Surprised at my language?" Fleur said. "The Bible is explicit about whoredom and its consequences. The adulterer and the adultress shall surely be put to death. Leviticus 20."

"The Bible was also clear about who got to throw the first stone." Jack's tongue was thick. He was surprised he could talk at all.

Fleur nodded. "I'm glad you can quote scripture."

"I learned a lot of Bible verses when I was a kid. Most of them in German." He took another drink. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" rang in his skull.