"Yet I believe in the very same God, Reverend. We're only men, not God Himself. We do the best we can; we're not enemies. It's human pride that keeps us apart. The least we can do as leaders is shake hands and try to resolve our differences." Gregg lathed his words with earnest conviction. "For the good of all. That would seem to be a truly Christian act." Gregg gave a bluff, self-deprecating chuckle and put out his hand once more. "I promise not to squeeze."

Puppetman quivered in anticipation. For a moment, he was certain that it had worked. Barnett hesitated, rocking on his toes. Then the preacher thoughtfully clasped his hands together around his Bible.

"The act I'd like to see us share, Senator, is prayer. Let me make an invitation to you. Join me in my vigil. Let's leave the politics to the delegates and kneel together for the next several days."

"Reverend…" Gregg began. He shook his head. Why? Why does he avoid us every time?

Barnett nodded, almost sadly. "I thought not," he said. "We walk very different paths, Senator." He began walking toward his room, clutching the Bible in his right hand.

Gregg let his hand drop to his side. "You don't shake hands with enemies, Reverend?" Gregg's voice was harsh, tinged with Puppetman's vitriol. Fleur, following behind Barnett, flushed angrily. Barnett simply favored Gregg with another of his sorrowful, secretive smiles.

"People expect Biblical quotes from a man of God, Senator," he said. "It's not surprising, since the Bible often has just the right word for the occasion. One comes to mind now, from I Timothy: `The Spirit distinctly says that in later times some will turn away from the faith and will heed deceitful spirits and things taught by demons through plausible liarsmen with seared consciences.' Now that's a bit of hyperbole, Senator, but I think that-unbeknownst, perhaps-a demon taints your words. We're not enemies, Senator. At least I don't think so. And even if we were, I'd still pray that you'd come into the light and cleanse yourself. There's always hope for redemption. Always."

Barnett gave Gregg an unblinking, long stare. There was a distinct click as he turned the deadbolt behind him.

The brandy kept hitting the cut on his lip, and each time it drew a yelp. And a smirk from the bartender. Tachyon considered telling her to fuck off, then he realized what a picture he must present. The mark of Sara's nails from last night's fiasco lay like red furrows dug in the white skin of his cheek. His lower lip was split and slightly swollen from Fleur's nail. What a singularly unsuccessful lothario he was. No wonder the young woman behind the bar smirked. Women. They always stuck together.

"Hi. Mind if I join you?"

Josh Davidson slid onto the stool next to him. Tach turned to greet him with genuine pleasure. "No, not at all."

"When a man sits huddled on a stool at a bar, it generally means he wants to be alone, but I thought I'd take a chance."

"I'm glad you did. Buy you a drink?"

"Sure."

An awkward silence fell between the two men, punctuated only by Davidson's order. Suddenly they shifted to face one another, and both said in chorus,

"I've admired-"

"I've always admired you-"

They laughed, and Tachyon said, "Well, isn't that convenient? We obviously have good taste." Tach paused and sipped brandy. "Why are you down here?"

Davidson shrugged. "Curiosity."

"About what?"

"The political process. Can a man make a difference?"

"Oh, yes, I'm convinced of it."

"But you come from a culture that puts a premium on individual effort," said Davidson, rolling his glass between his palms.

"I take it you don't agree?"

"I don't know. It seems a questionable proposition to allow one man's vision, opinion, to shape policy."

"But in this political system it never happens. Even in my aristocratic culture the absolute despot is a fantasy. There are always competing interests."

"Yes, so how do you choose between them?" Frowning, Tachyon said, "You make the decision."

"That sounds so easy. But what right do you have to substitute your judgment for… for.."

"The will of the people?" suggested the Takisian. "Yes."

Tachyon steepled his fingers before his mouth, threw back his head and regarded the wine glasses hanging like crystal stalactites from their rack. "A representative owes the People not only his industry, but his judgment, and he betrays them if he sacrifices it to their opinion.. Edmund Burke." Davidson's laughter was sharp and clear. Tachyon stiffened. "Doctor, you astound me."

Tachyon didn't reply. He knew he astounded people. He had astounded people since the moment of his arrival on this planet. August 23, 1946. Ideal, where had the time gone?

Forty-two years. He had lived almost as long on this world as on his own. Home.

"Hello? Where are you?" Dark, thoughtful eyes, soft with concern.

"On a world that doesn't exist for me anymore." Homesickness lay like a jagged lump in the back of Tach's throat.

"So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

Passed over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?"

The men's eyes locked. "Doesn't that describe Takis?" asked Davidson softly.

"And Earth. Treachery may be the one constant in an inconstant universe." Tach rose abruptly. "Pray excuse me. You were right, I do need to be alone."

The day had been a total washout. Spector sprawled on the bed, two pillows propping him up. He had the TV remote control in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. It was his bedtime ritual, and helped him feel less out of place.

He wasn't going to get to Hartmann in this building, not unless he was lucky beyond belief. And he'd used up his luck in getting this far. He didn't have access to the areas of the hotel that Hartmann would be in, except during press conferences. And he'd noticed that politicians rarely looked you in the eye unless you asked them a question. He wasn't dumb enough to draw that kind of attention to himself.

He sipped at his drink and played channel roulette. Atlanta had gotten pounded again, this time by the Cardinals. The news was full of political bullshit, of course. Was Hartmann porking this stupid reporter bitch? Did Leo Barnett really think God spoke to him? Spector wished he'd gotten contracts to kill them all. Politicians were mostly people who'd had too little morals and ethics to stay lawyers.

He'd eventually settled on an old movie. It was a period piece, set in France during the revolution. There was a guy in it who talked like Odie Cologne from the King Leonardo cartoons. Spector thought the actor had a double role, but hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure. None of the colors looked like anything that occurred in nature. Just pastels that blurred and bled into each other anytime someone moved. Ted Turner's movies looked about as good as his baseball team.

It had been weird running into Tony, even weirder finding out that he was a honcho for Hartmann. Tony was a good guy and Spector liked him, but he'd always been something of a bleeding heart.

The actor was in deep shit now, headed for the guillotine. He didn't seem particularly upset about it. Spector would have gone kicking and screaming. He knew what it was like to die.

He could use Tony to get at Hartmann, if there was no other way. Spector had always prided himself on the fact that he never fucked over his friends. He'd never had many, so it wasn't that hard to do. But the job came first.