George Martin - Ace In The Hole

"I've admired-"

"I've always admired you-"

They laughed, and Tachyon said, "Well, isn't that convenient? We obviously have good taste." Tach paused and sipped brandy. "Why are you down here?"

Davidson shrugged. "Curiosity."

"About what?"

"The political process. Can a man make a difference?"

"Oh, yes, I'm convinced of it."

"But you come from a culture that puts a premium on individual effort," said Davidson, rolling his glass between his palms.

"I take it you don't agree?"

"I don't know. It seems a questionable proposition to allow one man's vision, opinion, to shape policy."

"But in this political system it never happens. Even in my aristocratic culture the absolute despot is a fantasy. There are always competing interests."

"Yes, so how do you choose between them?" Frowning, Tachyon said, "You make the decision."

"That sounds so easy. But what right do you have to substitute your judgment for… for.."

"The will of the people?" suggested the Takisian. "Yes."

Tachyon steepled his fingers before his mouth, threw back his head and regarded the wine glasses hanging like crystal stalactites from their rack. "A representative owes the People not only his industry, but his judgment, and he betrays them if he sacrifices it to their opinion.. Edmund Burke." Davidson's laughter was sharp and clear. Tachyon stiffened. "Doctor, you astound me."

Tachyon didn't reply. He knew he astounded people. He had astounded people since the moment of his arrival on this planet. August 23, 1946. Ideal, where had the time gone?

Forty-two years. He had lived almost as long on this world as on his own. Home.

"Hello? Where are you?" Dark, thoughtful eyes, soft with concern.

"On a world that doesn't exist for me anymore." Homesickness lay like a jagged lump in the back of Tach's throat.

"So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,

Passed over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?"

The men's eyes locked. "Doesn't that describe Takis?" asked Davidson softly.

"And Earth. Treachery may be the one constant in an inconstant universe." Tach rose abruptly. "Pray excuse me. You were right, I do need to be alone."

The day had been a total washout. Spector sprawled on the bed, two pillows propping him up. He had the TV remote control in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. It was his bedtime ritual, and helped him feel less out of place.

He wasn't going to get to Hartmann in this building, not unless he was lucky beyond belief. And he'd used up his luck in getting this far. He didn't have access to the areas of the hotel that Hartmann would be in, except during press conferences. And he'd noticed that politicians rarely looked you in the eye unless you asked them a question. He wasn't dumb enough to draw that kind of attention to himself.

He sipped at his drink and played channel roulette. Atlanta had gotten pounded again, this time by the Cardinals. The news was full of political bullshit, of course. Was Hartmann porking this stupid reporter bitch? Did Leo Barnett really think God spoke to him? Spector wished he'd gotten contracts to kill them all. Politicians were mostly people who'd had too little morals and ethics to stay lawyers.

He'd eventually settled on an old movie. It was a period piece, set in France during the revolution. There was a guy in it who talked like Odie Cologne from the King Leonardo cartoons. Spector thought the actor had a double role, but hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure. None of the colors looked like anything that occurred in nature. Just pastels that blurred and bled into each other anytime someone moved. Ted Turner's movies looked about as good as his baseball team.

It had been weird running into Tony, even weirder finding out that he was a honcho for Hartmann. Tony was a good guy and Spector liked him, but he'd always been something of a bleeding heart.

The actor was in deep shit now, headed for the guillotine. He didn't seem particularly upset about it. Spector would have gone kicking and screaming. He knew what it was like to die.

He could use Tony to get at Hartmann, if there was no other way. Spector had always prided himself on the fact that he never fucked over his friends. He'd never had many, so it wasn't that hard to do. But the job came first.

The actor had just sent a little blonde number up to the big blade with a kiss and now it was his turn. "It's a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done before. It's a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known." The actor stood before the guillotine, noble, unafraid. Naturally, the camera pans up so nobody can see his head flop into the basket.

"What a fucking sap," Spector said, as he zapped the TV off. He downed another slug of whiskey and turned off the lights.

Wednesday July 20, 1988

The heavy thrum of the engines ran through every nerve. Tachyon stared gloomily out the plane's window, until returned to the present by a dig in the ribs from his seat companion. The stewardess indicated the covered tray with her eyes, and raised her eyebrows.

"Thank you, no. But I would like a drink. A screwdriver. Put that orange juice to good use." He smiled at her. She didn't respond. In fact she gave him a look that clearly said you lush.

He returned to his moody contemplation of the boiling thunderheads two thousand feet below. The stewardess returned with his drink, and Tach dug into his pocket for money. He came up with an inch-thick pile of pink message slips. Tachyon, call me, goddamn it! Hiram. He got the woman paid, and stared again at Hiram's insulting and uncommunicative message.

What the fuck did Worchester want, and what the fuck had Davidson meant? Did he mean to imply that Tachyon was a shepherd, and the jokers "silly sheep?" Or was the reference to a king meant for him? Or had it held a more personal meaning? Davidson had looked odd. Or was it just an irritating affectation on the part of a professional actor who couldn't carry on a conversation without a scriptwriter?

"Silly sheep. Goddamn him." Tach pulled out a handkerchief, and gave his nose a quick blow.

I'm going home to bury one of my lost sheep. Oh, Chrysalis.

He propped his head on his hand.

He'd had to wait almost forty-five minutes to get seated. The atrium coffee shop was a blur of activity. Waitpersons bounced around from table to table like pinballs. Spector sat by himself in a small booth, ignoring the babble of everyone around him. He looked slowly around the room. There were lots of red-rimmed eyes and pained expressions. Spector figured most of them had gotten fucked-up or fucked or both last night. He hadn't managed much sleep himself until the early morning hours.

A waitress stopped at his table and made a face that might have been a smile the first thousand or so times she'd done it. She pulled out her pad and pencil and raised her eyebrows expectantly. "What can I get for you this morning, sir?" The words came out in swift, staccato fashion. So much for Southern hospitality.

"Just coffee for now." Spector smiled slowly. He wanted food, too, but figured he was going to get his money's worth out of this bitch. The waitress gave him a dirty look and shot away from the table.

Spector leaned back in his chair and forced his surroundings to go out of focus. He had to come up with a plan to get at Hartmann. The pain was chewing at him big-time this morning, making it hard to think. '. Maybe he could get some inside dope from Tony. Find out where and when the senator would be most exposed. It would have to be crowded enough that nobody would realize exactly what had happened. At least, not for a while.