Puppetman snarled at Gimli, but Gregg shivered behind his smile. Puppetman shook the bars of his cage as the jokers' energy shimmered around them. Gregg held the doors shut with an effort.

"Hartmann! Hartmann!"

He smiled. He nodded. He touched. The temptation to let Puppetman out and ride with him was maddening. In that, Gimli was right-Gregg wanted it too. He wanted it as much as he wanted anything.

The Turtle came to a halt in the middle of International Boulevard near the effigy of Barnett. "Get on, Senator," he said. The shell swayed lower until it was only a foot above the pavement. Gregg stepped up; Billy Ray and the others circled the Turtle.

An enormous shout went up as he climbed the shell. Sensitive despite his burying of Puppetman, he was nearly staggered by the emotional impact of their massed adulation. Gregg slipped and nearly fell; he felt the Turtle lift him with an almost tender push. "Jeez, Senator, I'm sorry. I guess I wasn't thinking-"

Gregg stood on top of the shell. Joker faces peered at him, pressing against the Turtle's telekinetic barrier. The sound of their cheering echoed from the Omni and the WCC, deafening. He shook his head, smiling in the modest, half-shy way that had become the Hartmann trademark during the long campaign. Gregg let the chant go on, feeling the insistent beat hammer at him.

Puppetman rode with it. Though Gregg held him in, he could not keep the power from rising to the surface of his mind. He looked out at the jokers and saw familiar faces among them: Peanut, Flicker, Fartface, Marigold, and the one called Gravemold, who had finally brought down Typhoid Croyd. Puppetman saw them too, and the power slammed hard against the mindbars, growling and tearing.

Gregg trembled with the effort of controlling the ravenous personality, and knew he could not stay out here long. His hold was crumbling under the assault of their emotions.

(Brilliant, undiluted primary colors, swirling all about him. Puppetman could almost touch them and see them sway like tinted smoke

…)

Gregg raised his hands for silence. "Please!" he shouted, and heard his amplified voice rebound from the buildings around them. "Listen to me. I understand your frustrations. I know four decades of ill treatment and misunderstanding are aching to be released. But this isn't the way. This isn't the time."

It wasn't what they wanted to hear. He felt their distaste and hurried. "Inside that building, we're fighting for jokers' rights." (… shouts of encouragement: aching green and knife-edged yellow…) "What I'm asking is that you help me in that fight. You have a right to demonstrate. But I tell you that violence in the streets will be used as a tool against you. My opponents will point and they will say: 'You see, jokers are dangerous. We cant trust them. We can't let them live anywhere near us.' Now's the time for all jokers to finally cast off their masks, but you must show the world that the face underneath is the face of a friend."

(… the shaded currents turning muddy brown with confusion and uncertainty. The brightness dimmed…) With me, you'could do it. Easily. Puppetman mocked him. Look out there. Together, we could turn this around. We could end the demonstration. You'd walk away a hero. Just let me out.

Gregg was losing them. Even without Puppetman's direct link, he knew that. Gregg Hartmann was suddenly saying the same words they'd heard all along from everyone else. There was no magic anymore. No Puppetman.

(… shifting to a dark, somber violet: a dangerous hue, a feeding color. Puppetman screamed…)

Gregg had to leave. The emotions, like a storm-tossed tide battering the shore, eroded the tenuous hold on his power. Puppetman would leap out.

He had to end it. Had to get away from the feast spread before his power.

"I'm asking-begging-you to help those who are down there on the floor. Please. Don't let anger ruin it all."

It was a horrible, abrupt ending; Gregg knew it. The crowd stared at him, silent. A few tried to begin the chant again, but it died quickly. "Get me down," Gregg whispered.

The Turtle lifted him slightly and lowered him to the concrete. "Let's get out of here," Gregg said. "I've done all I can do." Puppetman clawed at Gregg in desperation, lashing out in his mind like a mad animal. The Turtle backed slowly through the crowd toward the waiting limo. Gregg followed, frowning. He saw and heard nothing of what was in front of him. It took all of his concentration simply to hold Puppetman in.

He'd been in the cab for more than an hour. Traffic was snarled almost as soon as they left the airport. Cars were jammed bumper to bumper, horns blaring, all the way into downtown. Pedestrians, mostly jokers, were massed in the streets. Some wore masks. Some carried signs. All were in a dangerously surly mood. More than once they had rocked the cab as it cruised slowly through them. Spector had given the driver an extra c-note to get him within a block of the hotel. Judging by the grumbling from the front seat, the cabbie was having second thoughts in spite of the money.

The driver's license had been easy. He'd doctored them before. After removing the lamination, he'd carefully razored out the reporter's photo and replaced it with one of his own.

Then he'd used a laminating machine at the airport to finish the job. The reporter, his name had been Herbert Baird, was close to the same height, weight, and age as Spector. Right now, though, getting caught with fake ID was the least of his worries. Spector just wanted to get to the Marriott in one piece.

A joker with huge folds of wrinkled, pink skin jumped onto the hood and waved a sign that said "NATS ARE RATS" on one side and "WHAT ABOUT US?" on the other. There was chanting up ahead. Spector couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Far as we go, mister," said the cabbie. "I ain't playing joker-bait for a hundred dollars or a hundred thousand."

"How far to the hotel?" Spector had his luggage in the back seat with him. He'd figured it would be a mess downtown, and he didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary picking through a crowd of pissed-off jokers.

"About two blocks straight ahead." The driver looked around nervously as one of the taillights was kicked in. "I'd move it if I were you."

"Right." Spector opened the car door carefully and stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk. Some of the jokers made faces at him or raised their fists, but most didn't give him any trouble. He moved forward slowly, unhappily aware that his new suit and luggage would make him conspicuous, and a likely target.

After about ten minutes of pushing and shoving, the hotel was just across the street. Spector was covered in sweat and starting to smell like the freaks around him. A joker with needle-like fingernails stepped in front of him and took a swipe at his suitcase, shredding one side. Spector caught his eye and fed him just enough death-pain to make the joker collapse. He didn't want to risk stirring up this mob with a killing. Hot as it was, these bimbos wouldn't think twice about someone passing out.

The crowd was beginning to break up, doubtless to re-form somewhere else, as he stepped into the hotel lobby. It was open all the way to the roof. The building's curves reminded him of the inside of something dead. Spector took a breath of cool air and walked over to the security area. Herbert Baird, you're Herbert Baird, Herbert Baird, he thought.

There were several uniformed cops and suited men with earpieces waiting for him. "Identification, please," said one of the cops.

Spector pulled out his wallet, trying consciously to relax, and handed over the driver's license. The cop took it and passed it over to a man sitting at a computer terminal. The man typed for an instant, his fingers blurring on the keys, then paused, and finally nodded.