"I get your hint. I get your hint," the old man said goodnaturedly, moving off along the darkened row of tables. "Never saw a girl liked books so much and going out and having fun so little," he muttered half to himself.

Jennifer went back into the stacks, keeping an eye on Hector, making sure he was going on his desultory rounds. It wouldn't do, she told herself, to have him come upon one o the reference librarians poring over a catalog with a couple o books full of rare stamps on her desk. It wouldn't do at all.

The noise level inside the Crystal Palace was still low enough to listen in on individual conversations, but Spector wasn't interested in eavesdropping. He headed straight for the bar, sat down, and started drumming his fingers on the polished wood. Sascha, alone behind the bar, was busy making brandy alexander for a blond woman in a tight red-and-white cotton dress. Sascha's eyeless face gave Spector the creeps.

"Hey," Spector said, just loudly enough to get Sascha's attention. "I need a double shot of Jack Black."

"I'll be with you in a minute."

Spector nodded and pushed his hair back out of his eyes.', He was too scared to eat, but he could always drink. Shit, he thought, I should have agreed to whatever he wanted. That twisted old fuck can make mincemeat out of me. He put his hand over his mouth and tried to slow his ragged breathing. He turned around, afraid that the Astronomer might be right behind him. Only a few people would have the balls to start something at the Crystal Palace, but the Astonomer wouldn't even think twice about it.

God, I really don't want that bastard after me. Maybe he'll be too busy with the others. Even the Astronomer will have trouble taking them all on.

"Your drink."

Spector jumped at Sascha's voice, then turned around. "Thanks." He fished in his pocket for a five and tossed the crumpled bill onto the bar. Sascha hesitated for a moment, then picked up the money and walked away.

Spector picked up the glass and downed the whiskey. Got to keep moving. Maybe he won't look for me in Brooklyn. He laughed softly to himself. Maybe the next President will be a joker.

The air was chill and calm as he stepped outside. He rubbed his palms together and walked quickly down the street, toward the nearest subway.

The first time she killed it had been by accident-if such a thing can ever be termed an accident-and even now she could excuse it because toads like Sully really shouldn't be allowed to breed and multiply.

She had just lost her job. Her fingers tightened, and sugar and stale doughnut crumbs pattered onto the plastic plate. It had been presented as a leave of absence, but she knew better. For weeks the whispers had haunted her; creeping about the corners of the office partitions, echoing in the washrooms, leaving a tangible mark on every face. Poor thing… husband is divorcing her… Is it true?… she had… a monster?

Several of her pregnant friends dropped her as if her very presence could mutate their child, and the fear was not helped by a disquieting rumor out of the CDC that two anomalous cases of the wild card virus had arisen that could only be explained if the disease was in fact contagious. Frank had been kind that day when he called her into his office, but very firm. Her presence in the office was affecting worker morale and productivity. And didn't she really need some time alone to come to grips with What Had Happened To Her? So why not take a little time?

Weeks later, money running low, and her spirits just as low, she found Sully Thornton at her door. He was a pathetic little toady who continually brayed about being one of Josiah's "business associates." Roulette had never particularly noticed him doing any business when he had been present at Smallwoods. Instead he had concentrated on lapping up all the free booze he could hold, and trying to press soggy drunken kisses on her whenever he caught her alone. She had slapped him once, and after a neighing titter that set his prominent Adam's apple to bobbing, he had boozily explained that he was just "emulatin' old grandpa Thornton, with his fascination for dusky women. Just runs in the blood." Yeah, she'd thought sourl like whuppin' on the boys, and fuckin' the mammies. Just comes natural.

Sully had mouthed something about wanting to look h up because Josiah had treated her so bad, and could he buy h dinner, and he'd heard she'd lost her job, and did she need "little loan?" She didn't miss the meaning, and despite her r vulsion with the man she accepted. Being broke ruins a per son's standards.

Late that night, as he'd lain groaning and panting ato her, she had remembered the bone-cracking release as he baby was born, and raised herself up on her elbows, and had seen… No! Then had come a release of another kind, and Sully had died.

Her eaters of the soul had begun to torment her withi hours of Sully's death. And if Judas had not found her perhap she would have ceased to deal in death. But the Astronomer' acehound did find her, and took her to the Cloisters, and th Astronomer had spoken to her hidden places, nurturing he festering hate, promising that she would have her final re venge, and that when the last kill was made he would give he peace-remove forever the memory of her child.

The Astronomer had used her sparingly, eager to keep he secret and very effective And she was effective. Today marked the third kill she had made for her awful master, and each time it was worse. She gulped down some of the Sunshine Cafe' enamel-stripping coffee, trying to wash away the sick taste o death that lay on her tongue.

This time he would know. He would sense her guilt an doubt, and react, and she was scared to disappoint- No. She was just scared. Terrified of him. Of his powers. Of his ob sessive drive to destroy. First TIAMAT Now those who had denied him his ultimate victory.

What if she just never went back?

No, without him there could be no final catharsis, no final release from the memory of monsters. He could have all the rest, but Tachyon was hers. The alien had destroyed her life.

She would repay him by destroying his. That was her obsession, and it had wedded her to the Astronomer in an unholy union of hate and vengeance, and it was far stronger a bond than love.

"Lady, I don't rent tables by the hour," growled the proprietor of the Sunshine Cafe, who was living proof that the 'generators of cheerful advertising' were under no obligation to follow it.

She tossed money onto the table, and decided to be grateful for the interruption rather than irritated. Her greasy-spoon haven had been removed. She had to go.

To face him.

Normally Hiram liked to ride through the city streets, to watch the ebb and flow of the human drama on the sidewalks of Manhattan through the frosted-glass windows of his Bentley, while his driver worried about gridlock and kamikaze cabs. But today Jokertown and surrounding neighborhoods would be chaos, as the jokers took to the streets and thousands of tourists flowed into the city for the parades, street fairs, fireworks, and other celebrations that marked Wild Card Day.

To avoid the crush, Hiram told Anthony to take the FDR Drive, and even so the traffic was a horror. He would have preferred to return to his apartment to change, but there wasn't time. They went directly to the Empire State Building. Velvet ropes had been hung in front of the express elevators to Aces High, and a tasteful gold-lettered sign said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Hiram hopped over the rope lightly, no feat at all for a man who weighed only thirty pounds, but it always raised a few eyebrows in the lobby. The elevator took him straight up to the restaurant's foyer.

As the doors opened, he heard his head chef shouting at someone. The saucier, no doubt; they were constantly arguing. A janitor was sweeping out the cloakroom as Hiram emerged from the elevator. "Make sure you empty the ashtrays, Smitty," Hiram told him. He paused a moment, looked around the room. The marble floor was gleaming, the couches had been freshly cleaned. All the walls were hung with framed photographs of celebrities: politicians, sports figures, sex symbols, socialites, writers, film stars, newsmen, and a myriad of aces. Most had scrawled warm personal inscriptions to Hiram across their likenesses. He stopped to straighten the picture of Senator Hartmann and the Howler that had been taken the night the senator had been reelected, then swept through the wide double doors into the restaurant itself.