"Which brings us back to that question you haven't asked me yet, Senator."

He's very interested, even without me. Feel it? Taste it? "You know what I'm offering." Gregg said it as a fact, not a question.

"You're offering the vice presidency," Jackson said, nodding. "You're saying `Reverend Jackson, why don't you tell your delegates to vote for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket?' With my delegates and yours, we might win the nomination."

"With your voice, with your strength, with your power, we"-Gregg paused, stressing the word-"we win not just the nomination, we win the presidency."

Desire was bright, bright blue. Mottling it underneath were dark splotches of doubt. Puppetman scraped the darkness away, made them fade into nothingness. Jesse pursued his lips. "I could make the same offer to you, Senator…" he began, but Puppetman was still prodding, still working on his mind.

Jackson's voice faded. He nodded.

He held out his hand.

"All right, Senator," he said as they shook. "You're right. It's time to build a bridge we can walk over. It's time to begin to bring all of us together."

Puppetman shouted in triumph. Gregg laughed helplessly.

He had it. This time he would have it. A little maneuvering yet to do, and it would be his.

The overproof rum hit Jack's stomach like a wave of welcome flame. He took another couple swallows, then capped the bottle and stuffed it in a pocket. He'd bought it after Tachyon had been carried off to the hospital and the Secret Service let him go.

There was still blood on his cuffs and shoes. He was trying not to think about how it got there, and he figured the overproof would help.

He stepped up to one of the back doors of the Omni. Aw, hell, he thought. There was the big guard with the broken nose, Connally. Connally was already shaking his head, refusing admittance to a gray-haired man who was waving a pass in his face. Jack could almost recite the dialogue along with Connally and the delegate.

"Sorry. Nobody gets in this way."

"But I just left through this door. You saw me."

"Nobody gets in this way."

"Officer, I'm merely going to collect my daughter, who is a delegate. I do have a pass."

A chill finger caressed Jack's neck at the sound of the man's voice. He stopped, about ten feet behind the man, and stared at the back of his gray head. Where had he heard this before?

"Well," Connally said slowly. "I suppose it won't make that much difference. Even though nobody's supposed to come through here."

"It'll be okay," said the man.

Shaking his head, as if he didn't realize why he was doing this, Connally reached for his belt, produced a bunch of keys on a chain, and opened the door.

Surprise danced through Jack's head.

"Thank you, officer. That's very kind." The man stepped through the door.

Jack moved forward. Something here wasn't right. "Excuse me," he said.

Connally glared at him. "Where do you think you're going, asshole?"

Jack forced a smile. "I'm a delegate."

Connally closed the door and firmly locked it. "Nobody gets through this door. That's my instructions."

Jack peered through the glass door at the gray-headed man's retreating form. "You just let him through," he said. Connally shrugged. "What if I did?"

"He's not even a delegate! I'm a delegate!"

Connally looked at him. "He's not an asshole. You are." As Jack stared through the glass door he saw the grayhaired man glance back, a short take over his shoulder, his hand raised to give Connally a friendly wave. The man saw Jack, and the bearded face turned to stone before the man dropped his arm and headed on his way.

Jack's hackles rose. He'd seen that face recently, on the cover of Time magazine after an actor named josh Davidson had done King Lear in Central Park.

More importantly, he'd seen that look before.

He remembered a bunch of dock workers dancing on a table, singing "Rum and Coca-Cola."

Sorry, Sheila, he remembered, your old man's the nicest guy I've ever met.

He knew Davidson's look, Jack thought again. He'd seen it once before, back in '50, when he'd walked out of the committee room after testifying before HUAC and walked right past where Earl and David and Blythe and Mr. Holmes were waiting, walked right past them without saying a word. Suddenly Jack was running, dashing past the surprised Connally toward one of the doors he could use.

Josh Davidson, Jack knew, was a secret ace.

As Jack ran for the doors, the bottle of overproof slipped out of his pocket and smashed on the concrete. He didn't slow down.

So far as anyone knew, Jack was the only one of the Four Aces left alive. No one knew for sure, because one of the four was missing.

After serving three years on the island of Alcatraz for contempt of Congress, David Harstein had walked off the boat in 1953. A year later Congress passed the Special Conscription Act, and Harstein had been drafted. He never reported. No one had seen him since. There were rumors that he'd died, been murdered, defected to Moscow, changed his name and moved to Israel.

There hadn't been a single rumor to the effect that he'd had some plastic surgery, done a little weightlifting, put on some weight, grown a beard, taken voice lessons, and become a Broadway actor.

Your old man's the nicest guy I've ever met. Naturally. No one could dislike David Harstein, not once his pheromones got to them. No one could disagree with him. No one could avoid doing what he wanted them to do.

Jack waved his ID at the man at the door, then plunged through. He ran through the crowd of people in the direction he'd last seen Davidson, ignoring the stares of the other delegates. Over the heads of others, he saw Davidson heading into one of the tunnels that led to the floor. He followed, caught Davidson's arm, said, "Hey."

Davidson spun around, threw off Jack's hand. His eyes were like chips of obsidian. "I would rather not talk to you, Mr. Braun. "

Jack started to retreat. He could feel the color draining out of his face. He took a grip on his nerves and stepped forward.

"I want to talk to you, Harstein," he said. "We've got almost forty years to catch up on."

Harstein took a step backward and clutched at his heart. Jack felt a surge of terror: maybe he'd just given the old geezer a heart attack. He reached out to hold Harstein upright, but the man coldly knocked Jack's hands away, then turned partly. away and leaned on the wall.

"If it be now," he murmured, "'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come."

"Readiness is all," said Jack, completing the quote. He'd played Laertes in high school.

Harstein looked sharply at Jack. "All these years, and you discover me. It's appropriate somehow."

"If you say so."

"Why are we having a conversation? Unless you mean to blow the whistle on me."

Jack took a long breath. "I'm not blowing the whistle on anybody, David," he said.

The actor's face was contemptuous. "An interesting step out of character."

"You're the expert on character."

"I'm the expert on prison, too. I spent three years there."

"I didn't send you to prison, David," Jack said. "They sent you away before I ever testified."

"Another interesting distinction." Davidson shrugged. "However, if it serves to salve your conscience…"

Tears stung Jack's eyes. He sagged against the wall. He couldn't use the defense he'd used on Hiram. Harstein had been there. He hadn't broken, and that's why they'd sent him to prison.

And what had happened to Blythe had been far worse. It was as if Harstein had picked the thought out of his head.

"I went to see Blythe right after I got out of prison."

"November 1953. I talked my way past the orderlies. I even went into her cell. I told her everything was going to be all right. I told her she was well. She wasn't. Three weeks later she was dead."