There wasn't likely to be any time at this convention for a personal life anyway.

Jack put the messages in his pocket and turned away from the desk. A Flying Ace glider spun into the ground before his feet. He automatically reached down to pick it up, saw the molded white scarf, flyer's helmet, leather jacket.

Jack stared for a long moment, the glider hanging from his hand. Hello, Earl, he thought.

For a while he'd thought it would really be okay. He'd reached a truce with Tachyon; maybe Gregg Hartmann could talk old diehards like Hiram Worchester around. Maybe everyone else had forgotten the Four Aces, and HUAC, and Jack's betrayal; maybe he could step out in public and do something worthwhile without messing up, without being haunted by reminders of the past.

Better straighten up, farm boy. Funny how after all these years he still knew exactly what Earl Sanderson would say. Jack rose to his full height and looked over the heads of the crowd, wondering if someone out there had meant the glider to fall where it did, wanted to remind him that everything hadn't been forgotten. Jack must have looked ridiculous enough, heaven knows, hunched over the glider with his guilty conscience welling out of his face, and the effigy of his friend and victim dangling from his paw.

Bye, Earl, he thought. Take care, now.

He cocked his arm back and fired. The glider whirred as it rose into the atrium, rising forever until it was lost to sight.

Gregg could feel the hunger.

It had nothing to do with politics or the expectation that by the end of this week he could well be the Democratic nominee.

Coming down in the Marriott elevator for his breakfast meeting with Jack Braun and Hiram Worchester, the hunger burned in his gut like glowing phosphorus-a pulsing violence that a few croissants and coffee would never touch.

The hunger was Puppetman's, and it demanded pain. His face must have reflected some of the inner struggle. His aide, Amy Sorenson, leaned toward him and touched his shoulder hesitantly. "Sir…?"

Billy Ray, assigned to Hartmann's personal security for the convention, glanced over the shoulder of his spotless white Carnifex uniform from the front of the elevator. Gregg forced a yawn and a professional smile. "Just tired, Amy. That's all. It's been a long campaign and, by god, it'll be a longer week. Give me a few cups of coffee and I'll be fine. Ready to face the hordes." Amy grinned; Billy Ray returned his solemn attention to the door, ignoring the view of the Marriott Marquis's immense and surreal lobby.

"Ellen wasn't having trouble, was she?"

"No, no." Gregg watched the lobby floor rise toward them. A large foam glider spiraled lazily past them toward the crowded restaurant below. As the elevator passed it in midflight, Gregg could see that the body was that of a woman with bird-shaped wings. The features looked suspiciously like Peregrine's. Now that he'd noticed the first one, Gregg saw that there were several more of the gliders performing acrobatics above the lobby. "She hasn't had morning sickness since the first trimester. We're both fine. Just tired."

"You've never told me-do you want a boy or a girl?"

"It doesn't matter. As long as it's healthy."

The floor indicators flickered down. Gregg's ears popped with the pressure change. Inside, Puppetman snarled. You're not fine. Give me a few cups of coffee.. The presence radiated disgust. Do you know how long I've been waiting? Do you know how long it's been?

Be quiet. We can't do anything about it now.

Then it had better be soon. Soon, do you hear me, Greggie?

Gregg forced the power back into its mental cage. The effort cost him. Puppetman struggled, its anger a rasping, continual presence. Shaking the bars.

Lately, it was always shaking the bars.

The problem had only begun in the last few months. At first it was rare, something he thought of as some strange fluke, a quirk attributed to the weariness of a long campaign. But it had happened more and more often.

A mental wall would slam up between Puppetman and his victims. just as he was about to feed on those dark and violent emotions, he would be cut off, pushed back by some outside force. Puppetman would howl as the link to the puppet was severed.

He'd prayed that problem would disappear; instead, it worsened. For the past two weeks the block had reared up every time Puppetman had tried to feed. Lately, he'd begun to sense a mocking laughter riding with the interference, a faint, whispering voice just on the edge of recognition.

The power inside Gregg was becoming desperate and uncontrollable. And Gregg was afraid the internal struggle was beginning to show.

Make me wait much longer and I'll show you the real puppet. I'll give you a goddamn graphic demonstration of which one of us is in control.

The power slipped loose of Gregg's hold for a moment, defiant. Gregg willed it to be silent, but still it screamed at him as he set the mental bars around it once more. Puppetman gibbered and spat. You're the fucking puppet, do you hear! I'll make you crawl! Understand? You need it as much as I do. If I die, you die. You have nothing without me.

Gregg was sweating with the effort, but he won. He closed his eyes and leaned back as the elevator lurched to a halt at the ground floor. Puppetman lapsed into brooding silence inside; Amy watched him with concern.

The doors opened, and the coolness and noise of the lobby hit them. Some of the crowd in the lobby, most of them sporting Hartmann buttons and hats, had spotted him-there were screams and a rush toward him. Waiting Secret Service men stepped smoothly between them, cutting off the supporters; Gregg waved and smiled. They began to chant: "Hartmann! Hartmann!" The lobby echoed with it.

Amy shook her head. "What a circus, huh?"

Ray ushered Gregg toward the private room where he was to meet Hiram and Braun, and then took his station just outside. Gregg went in. The air-conditioning here was more oppressive than the lobby's. He shivered and rubbed his arms. Only Jack-Golden Boy-was present, a handsome, tall man who looked as if he hadn't aged a day in the four decades since the heyday of the Four Aces, still the image of the movie star he'd once been. He rose to greet Gregg. Braun seemed subdued, which didn't surprise Gregg. He hadn't figured Jack would much care for the attempt at reconciliation. Frankly, he didn't give a shit whether Jack was happy with it or notGregg was going to make the two of them bury this particular hatchet; publicly, at least.

"Senator, Amy," Braun said. His eyes lingered a bit too long on Amy. Which also hardly surprised Gregg; he knew they were having an affair. Puppetman knew lots of hidden things. "Good morning. How's Ellen?"

"Getting bigger each day," Gregg replied. "And tired a lot. Like all of us."

"I know what you mean. Ready to begin the good fight?"

"I thought we'd already begun, Jack," Gregg commented. His voice sounded glum and irritable against Braun's heartiness. He made himself smile.

Braun glanced at Gregg strangely, but he laughed. "I suppose so. You know Californians: it's bad enough everyone was a little jet-lagged. I was up most of the night with your uncommitted superdelegates. I think we have things worked out. Listen, I thought you said Worchester was going to be here."

"You haven't seen him this morning?" Gregg frowned, irritated.

"Not yet. And it isn't exactly like him to pass up a meal-though he'll probably bring his own in since I hear even the Bello Mondo isn't up to his standards." A grimace and shrug. "Hey, I know the reason you wanted this breakfast meeting was to get the two of us to patch up our differences, and I appreciate the sentiment-I'd like it, too. But maybe Hiram isn't quite as forgiving as you think."

"I don't believe that, Jack."