see if anyone had left any messages. Charles Devaughn wanted him to call; so did one of the Georgia starlets. Which one, Jack tried to recall, was Bobbie? The stacked redhead? Or was it the blonde chain gang woman who spent half the party talking about her expensive dental implants and demonstrating her anticellulite exercises?
There wasn't likely to be any time at this convention for a personal life anyway.
Jack put the messages in his pocket and turned away from the desk. A Flying Ace glider spun into the ground before his feet. He automatically reached down to pick it up, saw the molded white scarf, flyer's helmet, leather jacket.
Jack stared for a long moment, the glider hanging from his hand. Hello, Earl, he thought.
For a while he'd thought it would really be okay. He'd reached a truce with Tachyon; maybe Gregg Hartmann could talk old diehards like Hiram Worchester around. Maybe everyone else had forgotten the Four Aces, and HUAC, and Jack's betrayal; maybe he could step out in public and do something worthwhile without messing up, without being haunted by reminders of the past.
Better straighten up, farm boy. Funny how after all these years he still knew exactly what Earl Sanderson would say. Jack rose to his full height and looked over the heads of the crowd, wondering if someone out there had meant the glider to fall where it did, wanted to remind him that everything hadn't been forgotten. Jack must have looked ridiculous enough, heaven knows, hunched over the glider with his guilty conscience welling out of his face, and the effigy of his friend and victim dangling from his paw.
Bye, Earl, he thought. Take care, now.
He cocked his arm back and fired. The glider whirred as it rose into the atrium, rising forever until it was lost to sight.
Gregg could feel the hunger.
It had nothing to do with politics or the expectation that by the end of this week he could well be the Democratic nominee.
Coming down in the Marriott elevator for his breakfast meeting with Jack Braun and Hiram Worchester, the hunger burned in his gut like glowing phosphorus-a pulsing violence that a few croissants and coffee would never touch.
The hunger was Puppetman's, and it demanded pain. His face must have reflected some of the inner struggle. His aide, Amy Sorenson, leaned toward him and touched his shoulder hesitantly. "Sir ... ?"
Billy Ray, assigned to Hartmann's personal security for the convention, glanced over the shoulder of his spotless white Carnifex uniform from the front of the elevator. Gregg forced a yawn and a professional smile. "Just tired, Amy. That's all. It's been a long campaign and, by god, it'll be a longer week. Give me a few cups of coffee and I'll be fine. Ready to face the hordes." Amy grinned; Billy Ray returned his solemn attention to the door, ignoring the view of the Marriott Marquis's immense and surreal lobby.
"Ellen wasn't having trouble, was she?"
"No, no." Gregg watched the lobby floor rise toward them. A large foam glider spiraled lazily past them toward the crowded restaurant below. As the elevator passed it in midflight, Gregg could see that the body was that of a woman with bird-shaped wings. The features looked suspiciously like Peregrine's. Now that he'd noticed the first one, Gregg saw that there were several more of the gliders performing acrobatics above the lobby. "She hasn't had morning sickness since the first trimester. We're both fine. Just tired."
"You've never told me-do you want a boy or a girl?"
"It doesn't matter. As long as it's healthy."
The floor indicators flickered down. Gregg's ears popped with the pressure change. Inside, Puppetman snarled. You're not fine. Give me a few cups of coffee .. The presence radiated disgust. Do you know how long I've been waiting? Do you know how long it's been?
Be quiet. We can't do anything about it now.
Then it had better be soon. Soon, do you hear me, Greggie?
Gregg forced the power back into its mental cage. The effort cost him. Puppetman struggled, its anger a rasping, continual presence. Shaking the bars.
Lately, it was always shaking the bars.
The problem had only begun in the last few months. At first it was rare, something he thought of as some strange fluke, a quirk attributed to the weariness of a long campaign. But it had happened more and more often.
A mental wall would slam up between Puppetman and his victims. just as he was about to feed on those dark and violent emotions, he would