He could be the killer. At the very least he must be an agent of Kien's. Jennifer looked firmly ahead. What to do? She could, of course, go to the police. But then she'd have to admit that she was Wraith, the daring thief who'd made the front page of even the staid New York Times. They could probably protect her from Kien's men, but she'd end up doing hard time for the string of burglaries she'd committed.

She clenched her teeth as she saw from the corner of her eye that the man was moving toward her.

What to do? What to do? The frantic refrain ran through her mind, keeping pace with the pounding of her racing heart. Nothing, she told herself. Be calm. Do nothing. Deny everything. He can't do anything to me with all these people around.

Darryl Strawberry, the young right fielder obtained two years ago in a trade with the lowly Cubs, was putting on a show in the batting cage. Everyone's eyes were on him as he whacked balls into and over the bleachers in right, left, and center field. No one was looking at her and the man.

Fear knotted her insides as he set a large hand lightly on her shoulder and said, in an unexpectedly soft voice, "Wraith," and she utterly and totally panicked at his use of her alias and ghosted, leaving him with an astonished look on his face as he stared at her pants and shoes lying in a crumpled heap before her bleacher seat, and holding her shirt in his right hand.

She heard him blurt "Wait!" and then she was gone, sinking through the structure of the bleachers like a stone ghost.

An officious security officer waved the limo to a position behind the bunting-hung stands. Riggs opened the door, and his expression gave new meaning to cat and canary. Tachyon, his color already heightened by her ministrations and the heat of the day, turned an even more fiery red, and said in an urgent undertone, "We will be leaving as soon as my speech is over."

"Very good, Doctor. Will we then be going to Ebbets Field as planned?"

"No!" Tachyon added something explosive in his own language, and, tucking Roulette's arm beneath his, escorted her up the back stairs and onto the stands. A large group of dignitaries were already assembled in a semicircle around the podium. She saw Hartmann looking peevish while the mayor of New York hung over the back of his chair and agitated for support for his upcoming gubernatorial race. The ace in the white jumpsuit, hood now thrown back, hovered solicitously nearby. He was staring glassily into the crowd at a nubile teenager whose breasts strained at her halter top, and Roulette noticed that his face didn't quite come together. The eyes weren't quite level, and the nose seemed to blossom like a twisted tuber above a too-small mouth and chin. He looked like an artist's clay model the artist had gotten bored with before completing the bust.

Seated in the second row of chairs was a distinguishedlooking Oriental. Periodically he jotted quick notes in a leather-bound book, and Roulette noticed that the gold fountain pen left a trail of gold ink. She made a face over the affectation, considering how often money did not translate into class or taste. The man's dark eyes lifted from the book, and stared with frightened intensity at a silver-haired man whose tailoring screamed "lawyer." This man seemed to be looking for an opening to interrupt the unending flow from Koch and speak to Hartmann.

At the far end of the front row sat a major rock-and-roll figure whose "Joker Aid" concerts had raised several million dollars-none of which had yet reached Jokertown. Roulette gave a cynical smile. From her days at the UN she knew in just how many ways money could be channeled and skimmed. Tachyon and his clinic would be lucky if they ever saw $10,000….

Her thoughts drew up short. The Takisian's voice penetrated her black study. "Roulette, here."

She glanced about confused, focused on the folding metal chair, seated herself.

"My God, Mrs. Brown-Roxbury! What are you doing here?" She stared into Senator Hartmann's pale brown eyes. He gave an embarrassed cough. "Oh damn, that sounded rather rude, didn't it? I'm just so surprised and delighted to see you. Mr. Love told me you had left the UN, and I was sorry to hear it."

"The UN? What is this talk of the UN? You worked there?" broke in Tachyon. "Senator, good to see you." The men shook hands across her.

Roulette opened her mouth, and shut it again as Hartmann took over the conversation for her. "Yes, Mrs. Brown-Roxbury was an economist with the United Nations Development Program."

"Not that we ever managed to develop a damn thing," she replied mechanically.

Hartmann laughed. "That's my Roulette. You always did give 'em hell up there."

"Mrs.?"

"Don't panic, I'm divorced."

Hartmann went nattering on about the "wonderful work being done by the IMF and the World Bank" while overhead the striped awning, erected to give some relief from the sun, snapped and popped in the wind. It created an odd punctuation to his sentences.

"Yes," pop "the electrification pro" snap "ject in Zaire is a " pop "classic example of the fine work… "

A discreet cough interrupted the flow. "Senator."

"Yes, what is it?"

"St. John Latham, with Latham, Strauss." Latham leaned in close, his pale eyes expressionless. "My client." A hand indicated the Oriental gentleman, and Hartmann slewed around to look.

"General Kien, how the hell are you? I didn't see you come sneaking, up here. You should have said something.' Kien slid the notebook into his coat pocket, rose, and shook the senator's outstretched hand. "I didn't wish to disturb you..'

"Nonsense, I always have time for one of my staunchest supporters."

Latham's pale, expressionless eyes shifted to Kien, back to the senator. "That being the case, Senator… The general has suffered a severe loss this morning. Several very valuable books of stamps were stolen from his safe, and the police are having little success in recovering them." The lawyer eyed Tachyon, but the alien showed no inclination to move. With a shrug he continued. "In fact, they don't seem to give a damn. I pressed them, and was told that given the other problems attendant on Wild Card Day they haven't got time to worry about a simple burglary."

"Outrageous. I'm afraid I don't have a lot of pull with New York's finest, nor would I want to tread on Mayor Koch's territory." A quick smile to the mayor still hovering hopefully on the outskirts of the conversation. Hartmann's eyes slid thoughtfully across the ace. "Still… Allow me to offer you Mr. Ray, my faithful justice Department watchdog."

Kien tensed, and exchanged a glance with his expressionless attorney. Roulette wondered if the lawyer's face ever displayed anything other than cold calculation.

"That would be fine-"

"Sir," Ray interrupted. "My job is to guard you, and meaning no offense, you're a hell of a lot more important than some stamps."

"Thank you for your concern, Billy, but your job is whatever the hell I tell you it is, and I'm telling you to help Mr. Latham." The senator didn't seem so charming now. The ace shrugged and capitulated.

"Thank you, Senator," Kien murmured softly, and he and Latham faded back through the chairs, drawing Billy Ray with them.

"Now, where were we?" The smile was pinned firmly back into place. "Oh, I remember, talking about your tremendous contributions."

Roulette pressed her shoulder urgently against Tachyon's, with a display of that disconcerting sensitivity he understood. "Ah, Senator, I see someone with whom I must speak. Adieu for the moment. Madam, will you walk?" He rose, offered his arm to Roulette, and they moved quickly to the other side of the stand.

A tide of humanity lapped at the edge of the stand, and stretched away in a great undulating wave, filling the square before Jetboy's Tomb. Behind them loomed the tomb itself, huge flanged wings reaching to heaven. Through the tall narrow windows she could see the full-size replica of the JB-i suspended from the ceiling. And out front the twenty-foot-tall Jetboy stared aloofly over the heads of the crowd.