clothes and get out. "I'll need two suits, one dark gray and one light gray. Thirty-eight long. Not too expensive."
Bob stroked his chin and made a face. "I don't think gray is really your color. Something in a tan maybe. Come on over here." He grabbed Spector by the elbow and guided him over to one of the mirrors. "Wait just a second."
Spector looked around the store. He didn't see anyone else. It was just Bob and him.
Bob trotted back over, holding a tan coat. He turned Spector toward the mirror and held the coat up in front of him. "What do you think? Great, huh. And a steal at four-hundredand-fifty dollars. Plus alterations, of course."
"I want two suits. Just like I said. One light gray. One dark gray. "
Bob sighed. "Look around outside. You know how many people are wearing gray suits? If you want to stand out, make an impression, you have to dress for it. Trust me."
Spector wasn't listening. He was breathing evenly and concentrating. Remembering the pain. The agony of his own death.
"You okay, mister?"
Spector turned to face Bob and stared into the man's eyes. They linked. Bob couldn't look away, and Spector didn't want to. The memory of his death blotted out everything else. And he gave it to the man in front of him. His insides twisted and burned. Skin ruptured and sloughed off. Muscles tore and bones snapped. Spector's death lived again in his mind. And Bob felt it, too. Spector shuddered as he recalled his heart bursting. Bob gasped. His legs went rubbery and he fell over. Dead. Just as Spector had been before Tachyon brought him back to life.
Spector glanced around. They were still alone. He grabbed Bob under the armpits and dragged him into one of the dressing booths, then walked back to the rack and picked out two gray suits. One dark and one light.
He wrapped them in plastic and headed for the street. "The customers always right, Bob. First rule of business."
9:00 P.M.
"The problem with Jackson on the ticket is that it could cost us the election. Not to sound bigoted or nothin'"
"But you do," interrupted Tachyon. A frown of jovian proportions creased Bruce Jenkins's forehead. Since the only hair remaining to the man was a tiny ruff over each big red ear it looked as if his entire head was buckling like earthquaketorn Earth. "Not to suggest that you are," Tachyon hastened to add, realizing that Takisian tactlessness might not be in place at a political convention. "But why are we discussing thirdplace runners, no matter how interesting or charismatic? The real issue is Senator Hartmann and Leo Barnett."
"Reverend."
"Eh?"
"Reverend Barnett. You give Hartmann his title. Leo's deserving of his, too."
"Are we finally getting down to business, Mr. Jenkins?"
"Yeah. Texas went solidly for the Reverend."
"And you intend to keep it that way?"
"If I can. Now this ain't to say that Gregg Hartmann isn't a good man. He is, that's why I think a Barnett/Hartmann ticket might have some real strengths."
"Impossible!"
"Now, don't be so hasty. Politics is a lot like horse trading, Doctor. You can't be too rigid."
"Mr. Jenkins, if the issue is the triumph of the Democratic ticket in November, then a ticket headed by Leo Barnett would be a disaster. There are still enough people who would oppose a religious figure running this country. Besides, Barnett is a one-note candidate."
"No, sir, there you're wrong. You see him as a one-note candidate because you're obsessed with wild cards, but Leo speaks for a lot of simple Americans who are worried about the moral decay of this country."
They stepped out of the Bello Mondo restaurant. To their left came the clatter of cutlery on china as the journalists, hangers-on, and less wealthy delegates dined in the Marriott's coffee shop. Tachyon frowned up at the banners stretched across the dizzying expanse of the lobby atrium.
Heard the sharp tick of high heels. jumped and whirled as he felt cold fingers nuzzle up beneath his hair, touching the nape of his neck. Sara winced at the pressure of his hand around her fingers. Bright color flamed in each cheek, but it looked angry against the unnatural white of her skin.
"I came for a statement, and to see if I could help." Tachyon shook his head. "What?"
She reared back slightly, nostrils flaring. "Chrysalis."
"What about her?"
"She's dead." The flat tone snapped him around as surely as Fleur's slap. He took two quick steps, groping for support. His hand closed on the sharp point of