sheet, stared with strained eyes into the oblivion of the far wall.
"Let me ease your mind on one point. I've already called the FBI, and offered to roll over in exchange for your immunity."
"Oh, George, thank you." His head fell back wearily against the pillows. "Goodbye, George. I would offer to shake hands, but ..."
"We'll say goodbye the Russian way."
Polyakov bear-hugged him, and pressed hard kisses onto each thin cheek. Tachyon reciprocated in the Takisian fashion with a kiss to the forehead and lips.
The Russian paused at the bedroom door. "How do you know you can trust me?"' "Because I am a Takisian, and I still believe in honor."
"Not much of that around."
"I take it where I can find it."
"Goodbye, Dancer."
"Goodbye, George."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday July 25, 1988
8:00 A.M.
"You're finished, politically," Devaughn said. His tone was almost jolly; Gregg wanted to smash his fucking face in. With Puppetman it'd be easy.
But Puppetman's gone. Dead.
"I'm not quitting, Charles," Gregg retorted. "Have you gone deaf? This is just a goddamn minor setback."
"Minor setback? Christ, Gregg, how can you say that?" Devaughn rattled the papers he'd brought. "The editorials are screaming. USA has a poll saying that eighty-two percent of the American public thinks you're nuts. ABC and NBC did overnight phone polls showing that you're now trailing Bush by sixty percent. CBS didn't even bother with that; by their poll, an even ninety percent of the public thinks you should flat out resign the nomination. As do L"
Devaughn did another turn of the deserted headquarters room.
"Jackson's really pissed, even if he's smoothing it over for you," he continued. "The committee wants your resignation in writing this morning. I told them I'd get it."
Gregg slumped in his chair. The television was replaying his-Tachyon's-breakdown again. Gregg got up and very calmly went to the set.
He kicked the picture tube in.
Devaughn raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. "Fuck the polls," Gregg said. He glowered at Devaughn as glass dribbled from his cuffs. "I don't believe in polls. Hell, let me debate Bush and I'll tear his nuts off. He's about as dynamic as dry toast. That'll turn the polls around."
"Bush won't debate you, Gregg. He won't come near a platform with you and he'll make you look like a fool when you insist. Resign, Gregg."
"Look, Charles, I'm the candidate. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what you or anyone else thinks. This convention elected me and by god, I'm running. I've got Jacksonhe's charismatic .."
"He'll also pull out of the ticket if you try to continue this charade," Devaughn sniffed like a prissy English lord. Like Tachyon. "You broke down, Gregg. America saw you on TV acting like a gibbering fool and they wonder how you'd react in a crisis in the White House. They don't want your finger on the button, Gregg. And frankly, neither do I."
"Damn it, that wasn't me that broke down, I tell you. It was Tachyon doing it. He took over my mind. I've told you that now a hundred times."
"So you say. You'll have a hell of a time proving it, though, won't you? Frankly, Gregg, that's going to sound like just another weak excuse. Or are you claiming Tachyon did it to you in '76, too?"
"Goddamn you!" Gregg roared. He pushed Devaughn with both hands, and the big man rocked backwards, a suddenly frightened look on his face. "I'm not resigning!"
"Take your hands of me, Gregg."
Gregg looked at Devaughn. With Puppetman, I'd make the bastard crawl . . He took a deep breath and stepped back. He rubbed his hands on his pants as if they were dirty. "I've made up my mind on this," he said softly.
Devaughn stared at him scornfully. "Then they'll reconvene the convention whether you like it or not. If you fight, you come out with nothing. You'll be made to look like a total ass. Resign, and maybe you can salvage at least your dignity from this mess. That's my final piece of advice for you, Senator." He stressed the last word mockingly.
Gregg went over to the couch, picture-tube glass crunching under his wingtips. He flung himself down on it. He cursed monotonously to himself, Devaughn watching silently.
When he finally looked up, the words he spat out tasted like ash.
"I've been hanging on with my damn fingertips, and now you're getting your kicks jumping up and down on them until I let go, aren't you? Well, you get your wish. Tell Tony to write the damn resignation," Gregg said. "He can write whatever