"I'm sorry," Jack said.

"Sorry." Harstein seemed to taste the word, rolling it about in his mouth. "So easy to say, yet having so little effect. We can make our lives sublime and, departing, leave behind us footprints in the sands of time." His eyes met Jack's. "A wind came up, Jack, and it blew away our footprints." He stared at Jack for a long time, an implacable look from which all emotions had been leached. "Leave me alone, Jack. I never want to see you again."

David Harstein turned and walked away. Jack slid slowly down the wall, terror and remorse shuddering through his body. It was at least five minutes before he got control of himself. When he stood up, he had huge sweat stains under his arms.

Delegates passing through the tunnel looked at him with pity or disgust, assuming he was drunk. They were wrong. He was sober, perfectly sober. He had been so terrified he'd burned every ounce of alcohol in his system.

Jack stepped back into the auditorium just asJim Wright announced the latest delegate totals. Hartmann's total was going into the sewer.

The hotel concourses were nearly deserted. Most of the people were watching the main event over on the convention floor. Spector walked into the snack bar, a bottle of Jack Black tucked under his arm. He'd slept most of the day away, had to get something to eat. The Marriott restaurants were out of the question; after the fight with Golden Boy, there were sure to be people looking for him. But he was weak from hunger and had to get something.

He wandered around the aisles of junk food and souvenirs, picking out a couple of candy. bars, a can of cashews, some sausage sticks. A young black man was behind the register, staring at a small black-and-white television. Spector set his stuff on the counter and peeled off a bill.

"Be right with you, mister," said the clerk. "They're supposed to show Tachyon's hand exploding after these commercials. Missed it live. Damn, I bet that was something to see. Did you catch it?"

"Tachyon's hand blew up? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You been by the pool all day or what?" said the clerk, shaking his head. "Some ugly little dude shook the doctor's hand and blew it clean off. They say… Wait a second. Here we go." He turned the television around so Spector could see, too.

The video was in slow motion. Tachyon was working the crowd, shaking hands. "Who gets him?" Spector asked. "Some little hunchback. See, there he is."

Spector opened his mouth. Shut it. It was the same little twerp who'd been on the flight down with him. The hunchback took Tachyon's hand and blood went everywhere. The cameraman was jostled by the panicked crowd and the video ended.

"Is he still alive?" Spector had always wanted Tachyon dead, but found himself hoping for the best. After all, killing Tachyon was something he planned to do himself, someday.

"So far." The clerk turned the television off and rang Spector up. " I guess he's tougher than he looks." He sacked the junk food and handed it over with Spector's change. "You don't go shaking hands with the devil, mister."

It's a bit too late for that, Spector thought, smiling. He pocketed his change and headed back to the room.

"Hey. jack."

"What is it, ese?" "Orders from Devaughn."

"Yeah." Jack spoke without enthusiasm. He was hiding from interviews in the middle of what remained of his loyal delegates-the disloyal ones, a third of the total, were off caucusing with their new managers.

"After the recess," Rodriguez said, "the Jackson camp is gonna move to suspend the rules of the convention in order to let Jesse speak. We're supposed to vote in favor."

Jack looked at Rodriguez in surprise. "We can't let a candidate speak. Hell, they'll all wanna-"

"News is, Jackson's going to drop out." Rodriguez smiled and tapped his nose. "I smell something, jack. Betcha Jackson's cut a deal with the boss. Betcha he's gonna be veep." Jack's mind worked through the idea. He hadn't been in charge of his own delegation since he'd gone off the balcony on Thursday: it was Rodriguez who had been riding herd on California and voting jack's proxy for Hartmann. He had to respect Rodriguez's instincts here.

As for the Hartmann/Jackson ticket: why not? It was the same deal that Roosevelt and Garner had cut in '32, during the last stalled Democratic convention.

"Our totals and Jesse's," he said. "Are they-?"

"Not enough. Jesse's people are working on Dukakis now. "

"Barnett will have to smell something." Or Fleur, he thought. Fleur had the sharper nose.

Maybe, jack thought, it was Fleur who was the secret ace, not Barnett. He wondered if Fleur had been in the military. "After this morning," Rodriguez being tactful, " there's no approaching them. Someone talked to Fleur whatsername: she says No. Doesn't even want to talk about it."

Jack rose to his feet, scowling toward the massive battleship-prow of the podium as Jim Wright called the convention to order and announced there would be another ballot. The damned vote would take forever: the managers had totally lost control of the delegates and each delegation would have to be polled man-by-man. The move to suspend the convention rules would come after the vote total was announced. And then that would have to be voted on-God, how long could this go on?

"Fuck! Fuck!" Rodriguez was shouting into his cellular phone. He slammed the thing into its cradle, then looked at jack. "Dukakis will go along with it. He hasn't got anything to lose, and maybe he can pick up some of Jackson's delegates. But we cant change the rules without Barnett. We need a three-quarters vote."

"This sucks, ese."

"Barnett 's going over the top if this Jackson stunt doesn't work." Rodriguez took a breath. "Okay. Here's what Devaughn wants. We're gonna start spreading the rumor that Jackson is dropping out, that all he wants to do is address the convention and make a plea on behalf of his constituency. Nobody's calling the shots with his individual delegates anymore. Maybe Barnett's troops won't pay attention when he tells them to vote no."

"Maybe."

Rodriguez shrugged. "The whole scheme's a maybe." Jack felt his hands balling by his sides. There had to be some way to repair things, some way to repair the damage that the assassin aces had done-hell, that Jack had done.

He remembered longshoremen dancing on a countertop. David Harstein, he thought wildly. Get Harstein on the platform. Use him to influence the entire convention to nominate Hartmann by acclamation.

No. Stupid. Everyone would notice. People watching on TV would wonder how come they weren't as enthusiastic as the people at the convention. And the air-conditioning might blow Harstein's pheromones away.

Harstein's power was subtle; it had to be used subtly. He could only influence a few people at a time.

Maybe, Jack thought, a few important people. Maybe Barnett's campaign manager.

Jack thought of Fleur dancing on tabletops, flinging her underwear into the Omni atrium, calling Leo Barnett on the phone to tell him how good Tachyon was in bed… Jack gloried in this picture for a moment before the whole thing fell apart.

David Harstein hated his guts. Who was he to make plans for the man?

The hell with that. Harstein wanted Hartmann elected, right? If nothing else, Jack could resort to blackmail. He knew Harstein was a secret ace. He could threaten to reveal it.

He thought of himself weeping in the tunnel and his stomach turned over.

Jim Wright read Alabama's delegate total. All for Barnett. That decided it. Jack was moving, walking from California to New York across the massive front of the podium. Harstein was seated in the bleachers watching his daughter address the New York delegation. His look was both sad and proud. Jack slapped Harstein on the shoulder and pinned him to his seat.