It rang seven more times. After the third time Tach stopped answering. The shrill ringing was a drill biting into his head. He dressed quickly in his usual elaborate finery. Pale rose and lavender with silver lace. The phone was still ringing as he stepped into the hall. For a moment he hesitated. Help me. Help him how? Tach gave his head an emphatic shake, and pulled the door shut. Too often Digger had embroiled him in the sleazy journalists sleazy little problems. Not this time.

I have enough problems of my own.

Spector hadn't been to the store for a year and a half, not since the Wild Card Day when the Astronomer went out in a blaze of glory. With a little help from hire, of course. The suit he'd bought then didn't last out the day, but then a lot of things hadn't made it through that day. The old guy who ran the place had seemed okay to him. What the hell, might as well throw hire some more business. He couldn't stay at a swank hotel and not have some decent clothes. He'd stand out like a joker at a fashion show.

He knew it was a mistake as soon as he stepped in. Before, the store had been old, dim, and dusty-like the old man who ran it. Now the place had been repainted and new, brighter lighting had been put in. The room even smelled new.

As Spector turned to leave, a voice called out to him, "Hey, come on in, sir. If ou're looking for fine clothing at great prices, you've come to' the right place. Just tell me-I'm Bob-name's on the sign outside-what you want and I'll fix you up in no time."

Spector looked Bob over. He was dressed well enough, although the clothes didn't disguise the fact that he was creeping into middle age, but he had a hustler's eyes and smile. Spector just wanted to buy some clothes and get out. "I'll need two suits, one dark gray and one light gray. Thirty-eight long. Not too expensive."

Bob stroked his chin and made a face. "I don't think gray is really your color. Something in a tan maybe. Come on over here." He grabbed Spector by the elbow and guided him over to one of the mirrors. "Wait just a second."

Spector looked around the store. He didn't see anyone else. It was just Bob and him.

Bob trotted back over, holding a tan coat. He turned Spector toward the mirror and held the coat up in front of him. "What do you think? Great, huh. And a steal at four-hundredand-fifty dollars. Plus alterations, of course."

"I want two suits. Just like I said. One light gray. One dark gray. "

Bob sighed. "Look around outside. You know how many people are wearing gray suits? If you want to stand out, make an impression, you have to dress for it. Trust me."

Spector wasn't listening. He was breathing evenly and concentrating. Remembering the pain. The agony of his own death.

"You okay, mister?"

Spector turned to face Bob and stared into the man's eyes. They linked. Bob couldn't look away, and Spector didn't want to. The memory of his death blotted out everything else. And he gave it to the man in front of him. His insides twisted and burned. Skin ruptured and sloughed off. Muscles tore and bones snapped. Spector's death lived again in his mind. And Bob felt it, too. Spector shuddered as he recalled his heart bursting. Bob gasped. His legs went rubbery and he fell over. Dead. Just as Spector had been before Tachyon brought him back to life.

Spector glanced around. They were still alone. He grabbed Bob under the armpits and dragged him into one of the dressing booths, then walked back to the rack and picked out two gray suits. One dark and one light.

He wrapped them in plastic and headed for the street. "The customers always right, Bob. First rule of business."

"The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. Not to sound bigoted or nothin'"

"But you do," interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce Jenkins's forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like earthquaketorn Earth. "Not to suggest that you are," Tachyon hastened to add, realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political convention. "But why are we discussing thirdplace runners, no matter how interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett."

"Reverend."

"Eh?"

"Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo's deserving of his, too."

"Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?"

"Yeah. Texas went solidly for the Reverend."

"And you intend to keep it that way?"

"If I can. Now this ain't to say that Gregg Hartmann isn't a good man. He is, that's why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths."

"Impossible!"

"Now, don't be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can't be too rigid."

"Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in November, then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, Barnett is a one-note candidate."

"No, sir, there you're wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you're obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are worried about the moral decay of this country."

They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates dined in the Marriott's coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.

Heard the sharp tick of high heels. jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.

"I came for a statement, and to see if I could help." Tachyon shook his head. "What?"

She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "Chrysalis."

"What about her?"

"She's dead." The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur's slap. He took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of Sara's shoulder. "Dead!"

"You mean you didn't know?"

"No… I… I've been busy. All day."

"Yeah." Her tone was bitter; then abruptly she dropped a gentle sympathetic mask over her pale features. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."

Jenkins tiptoed over. "Doctor, it seems you've had bad news. We'll talk another time."

Sara gripped Tachyon's arm with both hands and tugged him toward the elevators. "This has been a shock. You're very pale.! Maybe you should lie down."

"I need a drink."

Sara hung on grimly to his arm. "Don't you have something in your room?"

He frowned at her. "Yes."

"Let's… let's go there." Pale tongue running briefly across those too thin lips. "I… I need to talk to you." Physical vertigo added to his emotional vertigo as the elevator shot upward. "Chrysalis." He shook his head. "Tell me."

She did, in quick terse sentences, her pale eyes locked on his lilac ones. She seemed to be pressing for a mind contact, and he tightened his control. He didn't really want to know what went on behind that intense face.

He led them into the suite. Stood staring into the mirror over the wet bar, a hand closed limply about a brandy bottle. Mirrors. Chrysalis had loved mirrors, and had filled her boudoir with them.

He pictured the skull head with its trademark swirl of glitter on one transparent cheek. Pictured it battered to a bloody pulp. The tink of glass on glass was loud in the room.

He turned, and held out the glass, but Sara was gone. Hearing the squeak of a mattress, he walked into the bedroom, and stared in bewilderment at her pose. Elbows resting on the coverlet. One leg cocked over the other. Skirt hiked to mid-thigh. She accepted the drink, and coyly patted the bed next to her. Feeling like a man sharing a bench with a spider, he sank warily down.