George Martin - Ace In The Hole

Spector held up his key card. "1031."

"1031. Got it. I want to have dinner while you're down here. We've got plenty to go over." Tony shrugged. "I don't even know what you've been doing since high school."

"Fine. I've got plenty of time to kill while I'm down here," Spector said. The elevator pinged behind them. Tony backed away and waved. "See you later." Spector tried to sound like he didn't dread the idea. This was turning out to be weirder than Freakers on New Year's Eve.

Hiram was hosting a reception in his suite at the Marriott. Gregg was supposed to put in an appearance, so the rooms were packed with New York delegates and their families. Most of the suites Tachyon had entered stank of cigarettes and old pizza. This one stank of cigarettes, but the trays dotted strategically through the rooms held tiny quiches and piroshki. Tach snagged one, and the flaky pastry exploded in his mouth, followed quickly by the rich flavor of its mushroom filling.

Brushing crumbs from his fingertips and the lapels of his coat, Tach reached up and patted Hiram on the shoulder. The big ace was dressed with his usual flair, but circles hung like bloated bruises beneath his eyes, and his skin had the unhealthy look of moist dough.

"Don't tell me you had time to slip down to the kitchens and cook all this," teased Tachyon.

"No, but my recipes.."

"I suspected as much." Tach bent and flicked a crumb from the top of his patent leather pump with the edge of his handkerchief. When he straightened, he had gathered his courage. "Hiram, are you all right?"

The word exploded in a sharp puff. "Why?"

"You iook unwell. Come to my room later, and I'll check you over."

"No. Thank you, but no. I'm fine. Just tired." A smile creased the broad face as if it had been abruptly painted on by a cartoon animator.

Tachyon expelled a pent-up breath, shook his head as he watched Hiram bustle away to greet Senator Daniel Moynihan. The alien circulated, smiling, shaking hands-it still struck him as an odd custom even after all these years. On Takis there were two extremes: limited contact because between telepaths casual touching was repugnant; or between close friends and relatives the full embrace. Either choice caused problems on Earth. The light touch seemed snobby, and the full embrace raised homophobic reactions in the males of this planet. So Tachyon mused, and watched his gloved hand being swallowed again and again by the eager clasping fingers of the humans who engulfed him.

On a sofa set beneath one of the windows a man sat surrounded by three laughing women. The youngest sat on his knee. Behind him her sister leaned in, and twined her arms about his neck. Next to him on the sofa was a pretty grayhaired woman. Her dark eyes were affectionate as they rested on his face. There was a warmth in the scene that seemed to touch the emptiness that Tachyon felt in his own life.

"Come on, Daddy," pleaded the youngest. "Just one little speech." Her voice altered slightly, gaining in sonority and depth. "What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honor in one eye, and death i'th'other, and I will look on both indifferently; for, let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honor more than I fear death. "

"No, no, no." The man punctuated each word with a shake of the head.

"Julius Caesar might not be the best choice for a political convention," said Tachyon softly. Four sets of dark eyes regarded him; then the man lowered his gaze and his fingers combed nervously through his gray-shot beard. "Pardon my intrusion, but I could not help overhearing. I am Tachyon."

"We sort of guessed," said the girl behind the sofa. She surveyed the Takisian's brilliant outfit of green and pink, and tossed a droll look to her sister.

"Josh Davidson." The man indicated the woman beside him. "My wife, Rebecca, and my daughters, Sheila and Edie."

"Charmed." Tachyon brushed his lips across the back of three hands.

Edie chuckled, her gaze flickering between her father and sister. Emotions swirled about the little party. There was something just beneath the surface that Tachyon was missing, but deliberately missing. People had their secrets, and just because Tachyon could read them didn't mean he had the right. Another lesson learned after forty years on Earth was the necessity of filtering. The cacophony of untrained human minds would soon have driven him mad if he hadn't lived huddled behind his shields.

"Now I recognize you," said Tachyon. "You were brilliant last winter in Doll's House."

"Thank you."

"Are you a delegate?"

"Oh, god, no." The woman laughed. "No, my daughter, Sheila, is our representation."

"Daddy's a bit of a cynic where politics are concerned," said the older sister. "We were lucky to get him down here at all."

"Keeping an eye on you, young lady."

"He thinks I'm still ten," she confided with a wink to the Takisian.

"A prerogative of fathers." Davidson was staring so intently up at him that Tachyon wondered if this particular father was also sending him a warning-touch my daughters and lose your nuts. For his own amusement Tach decided to push it. He turned his blazing smile on the lovely Davidson daughters. "Perhaps I might buy the ladies Davidson lunch tomorrow?"

"Sir," said Sheila severely, but her eyes were dancing. "Your reputation precedes you."

Tach laid a hand over his heart, and faltered, "Oh, my fame, my lamentable fame."

"You love it," said Davidson, and there was a funny faraway expression in his expressive eyes.

"A condition that we perhaps share, Mr. Davidson?"

"No, oh, no, I think not."

There were polite murmurs all around, and Tach moved on. He felt eyes boring into the middle of his back, but didn't look back. It wouldn't do to encourage either of those lovely girls. He was only doomed to disappoint them.

Gregg had taken most of the other candidates for puppets as a matter of course. It was easy enough. All Gregg needed was to touch them for a few seconds. A lingering handshake was enough, long enough for Puppetman to cross the bridge of the touch and crawl into the other person's mind, there to prowl in the caverns of hidden desires and emotions, bringing all the filth to life.

Once the link was established, Gregg no longer needed the physical contact. As long as the puppet was within a few hundred yards, Puppetman could make the leap mentally.

Gregg artfully used Puppetman during the campaign to make the other candidates stumble over a question or seem too forceful and blunt in stating their positions. He'd done that until Gimli had started interfering late in the primaries and Puppetman became too erratic and dangerous to use.

Even though he'd had the opportunity, he'd left Jesse Jackson alone. The reverend was charismatic and forceful, a powerful speaker. Gregg even admired the reverend; certainly no one else in the campaign was so unabashedly straightforward, so unafraid of making bold statements. Jackson was an idealist, not a pragmatist like the rest. That was one strike against him.

And Gregg knew from experience that prejudice was also real, that it was easy for the average person to mouth sympathy but not to act on it.

The joker prejudice was real. The black prejudice was real. With or without Puppetman, Jackson would not become president even if he managed to get the nomination.

Not this year. Not yet.

It was something Gregg dared not say in public, but he also knew that Jackson was well aware of the fact, no matter what the man might say. So Gregg had let Jackson go his own way. In a way, it had made for a more interesting primary campaign.

Now, with Puppetman wailing inside and far too unreliable to let loose again, Gregg was forced to admit that it might have been a mistake. It would have made things much easier now.