"St. John Latham, with Latham, Strauss." Latham leaned in close, his pale eyes expressionless. "My client." A hand indicated the Oriental gentleman, and Hartmann slewed around to look.

"General Kien, how the h.e.l.l are you? I didn't see you come sneaking up here. You should have said something."

Kien slid the notebook into his coat pocket, rose, and shook the senator's outstretched hand. "I didn't wish to disturb you."

"Nonsense, I always have time for one of my staunchest supporters."

Latham's pale, expressionless eyes shifted to Kien, back to the senator. "That being the case, Senator. . . . The general has suffered a severe loss this morning. Several very valuable books of stamps were stolen from his safe, and the police are having little success in recovering them." The lawyer eyed Tachyon, but the alien showed no inclination to move. With a shrug he continued. "In fact, they don't seem to give a d.a.m.n. I pressed them, and was told that given the other problems attendant on Wild Card Day they haven't got time to worry about a simple burglary."

"Outrageous. I'm afraid I don't have a lot of pull with New York's finest, nor would I want to tread on Mayor Koch's territory." A quick smile to the mayor still hovering hopefully on the outskirts of the conversation. Hartmann's eyes slid thoughtfully across the ace. "Still. . . . Allow me to offer you Mr. Ray, my faithful Justice Department watch-dog."

Kien tensed, and exchanged a glance with his expressionless attorney. Roulette wondered if the lawyer's face ever displayed anything other than cold calculation.

"That would be fine-"

"Sir," Ray interrupted. "My job is to guard you, and meaning no offense, you're a h.e.l.l of a lot more important than some stamps."

"Thank you for your concern, Billy, but your job is whatever the h.e.l.l I tell you it is, and I'm telling you to help Mr. Latham." The senator didn't seem so charming now. The ace shrugged and capitulated.

"Thank you, Senator," Kien murmured softly, and he and Latham faded back through the chairs, drawing Billy Ray with them.

"Now, where were we?" The smile was pinned firmly back into place. "Oh, I remember, talking about your tremendous contributions."

Roulette pressed her shoulder urgently against Tachyon's, with a display of that disconcerting sensitivity he understood.

"Ah, Senator, I see someone with whom I must speak. Adieu for the moment. Madam, will you walk?" He rose, offered his arm to Roulette, and they moved quickly to the other side of the stand.

A tide of humanity lapped at the edge of the stand, and stretched away in a great undulating wave, filling the square before Jetboy's Tomb. Behind them loomed the tomb itself, huge f.l.a.n.g.ed wings reaching to heaven. Through the tall narrow windows she could see the full-size replica of the JB-1 suspended from the ceiling. And out front the twenty-foot-tall Jetboy stared aloofly over the heads of the crowd.

"Curious little drama we witnessed," remarked Tachyon.

"Yes."

He leaned back, looking up at her. "And you don't like the senator. Why?"

"Because I suspect he has an interest in the companies backing that multi-million-dollar boondoggle he was discussing with such relish."

"It sounded like it would help the people in Zaire."

"Hardly. It's been designed so no power can be siphoned off to provide services to the people living along its 1,100-mile line. It's basically a billion-dollar project to give money to that thug Mobutu, and to line the pockets of various large international corporations, and to make vast amounts of money in the form of interest for a number of large Western banks. It does f.u.c.k-all for the people of Zaire who will continue to live at a subsistence level despite one of the greatest repositories of mineral wealth on the continent."

"Roulette, you're wonderful."

She spun to face him. "If you're about to tell me how beautiful I am when I'm in a pa.s.sion I'll slug you off this stand!"

He held up his hands. "No, no, I do admire the pa.s.sion, and you are very beautiful, but you care, you're so interested . . . you remind me of another woman." The rather tangled sentence trailed away, and he seemed to be looking at some picture that had nothing to do with the holiday crowds that stretched away before them.

Roulette, staring idly out, suddenly gasped as the shadow of a pterodactyl rippled over the people. She glanced up, and sure enough, a pterodactyl was winging its way toward them. Tachyon, alerted by her indrawn breath, sighed, and made shooing motions with his hands. The pre-historic creature came on, the alien grabbed her about the waist, and pulled her back beneath the awning just as several small pterodactyl t.u.r.ds pattered onto the stand.

"Kid," Tachyon shouted. "Next time I catch you I'm going to beat you."

Koch was beckoning, so they returned to their chairs. Ten minutes later a cute-faced kid with several inexpertly covered pimples on his chin, and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wiggled through the front row of the crowd, and waved impudently up at the Takisian.

"Hey, Tachy, here I am."

"Well, at least you're dressed."

"I thought ahead. Left my clothes in the plane." A hand shot out indicating the tomb. "Thought you were going to beat me."

"I may yet."

"Bet you can't."

Koch was tapping the mike with a forefinger, sending booming, thrumming pops echoing across the square. Roulette, glancing between boy and alien, saw the human's eyes widen in alarm. Tachyon, with a guilty glance to Koch, darted to the edge of the stand. The Kid turned, bent, and obligingly presented his posterior to the doctor, who gave him a quick but gentle kick in the seat.

"Kid, stay out of trouble."

"No fair. Disgusting Alien Powers Used to Abuse Little Kid," he said in a tone indicative of a headline from the National National Informer Informer.

"Juvenile Delinquent Uses Ace Powers to Aggravate City."

"Aggravate? Can't I at least terrorize?"

"Maybe when you're older." Koch was glaring at the pair. "Now shoo. I have to be dignified now."

"Good luck." And with a flip of the hand he vanished back into the crowd.

"Who is he?"

"Kid Dinosaur. He's very bright, but unfortunately at that awkward age between boy and man which means he's something of a monster. He drives the aces mad for he's always underfoot. It must be very trying to his parents to be raising an ace, but children are such a delight-"

"Hey, you're on," Roulette said, interrupting the babble.

"Oh, by the Ideal, thank you." Leaning in close he said with a wink, "And then we can leave."

She thought he presented a rather comic figure. Tiny little man, head just topping the podium, red satin suit, and long red hair like a punk Lord Fauntleroy. She noticed that he had no notes, and wondered if an extemporaneous speech was quite wise. Then he lifted his head, and began, and comedy was replaced by dignity, and a wealth of caring.

"I always find it a little difficult to think what to say on this day. Are we celebrating, and if so what? Or are we honoring and remembering? And if so who do we honor, and what do we remember as a guard against future mistakes? You will hear a great deal today about Jetboy, and the Turtle, and Cyclone, and a hundred other aces," He waved at the great green sh.e.l.l where it hovered over the crowd. "And yes, even about me. But I don't think that's fair, and I'm going to talk about other people. About Shiner, who gave a home to an abandoned child, and Jubel, who can always spare a dime for some other joker down on his luck, and Des, who's done more to get parks built and schools improved in Jokertown than any other person.

"I speak about the jokers because I think they can offer a lesson and an example to other people. Their sufferings, mental, physical, and emotional, match anything experienced in human history, and they've tried a number of methods to cope with their isolation ranging from quiet fort.i.tude as they were abused by police, and other public officials, to violence culminating in the events of 1976, and now a new approach. A sense of self-reliance, and sharing that has allowed them to build, within the confines of our so-called Jokertown, a true community.

"I point out the various accomplishments of these remarkable people because there is a new mood in this country which I find fearsome. There is once again an attempt to delineate what is 'American,' to despise and discriminate against those who exist on the periphery of this fairy-tale 'majority.' And it is a fairy tale. Each person is an utterly unique individual. There is no 'consensus of opinion,' no 'right way' to do things. There are only people who, no matter how hideous and twisted on the outside, are internally driven by the same hopes and dreams and aspirations that drive all of us.

"I suppose what I really want to say on this Wild Card Day, 1986 is 'Be kind.' For adversity comes from many sources, not just from alien virus brought across light-years, and there may come a time when all of us, 'nats,' 'aces,' and jokers alike, will need that kind word, that offer of help, that sense of community that the jokers so wonderfully represent. Thank you."

The applause was thunderous, but Tachyon looked unhappy as he walked back to her.

"Very n.o.ble, but how do you think it will play?" Roulette asked as he scooped his hat off the chair.

Her arm was once more pulled through his, and he urged her toward the back stairs. "Some people will compare me to Mother Theresa, and others will say I am a self-serving son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"And you, what do you say?"

"That I'm neither. Just a man trying to live with honor, and to embrace whatever happiness is given me." They were standing by the limo, and Tachyon suddenly wrapped his arms about her waist, and buried his face in her bosom. "And I'm glad you are here to be embraced."

Furiously she cast him off, and backed away until brought up short by the back of the car. "Don't look to me for comfort. I have none for anybody. I told you that already. And what do you need it for, anyway? You're the saint of Jokertown. The big shot with a private limo, as much a star as any of the aces."

"Yes, yes, and yes! But I am also consumed with guilt, devoured by a failure that gathers every year on September fifteenth to haunt me! G.o.d, how I hate this day." His fists slammed onto the top of the car, and Riggs drifted away to stare in fascination at the cuff of his uniform coat. Tachyon's shoulders shook for several seconds, then he dashed a hand across his eyes, and turned back to face her. "All right, you have no comfort for me. I accept that. You said you were on a pilgrimage of despair. So am I. So let us at least journey together, and if we can't comfort we can at least share."

"Fine." She climbed into the car, and rested her head against the window.

And maybe I can do something. I can free you from your guilt, and by destroying you perhaps find my own peace.

Jennifer pulled herself through an endless expanse of concrete and steel, looking for a place where she could solidify and take a much-needed breather. She felt light-headed, even for a specter, and it was getting hard to concentrate. She had an overwhelming urge to simply drift, to float disembodied like a cloud and forget all her worries, all the danger that was d.o.g.g.i.ng her footsteps like a snarling Doberman.

But she couldn't give in to that urge. If she did she'd lose all being and become an attenuated will-o'-the-wisp, floating mindlessly until the random forces of Brownian movement scattered her to all corners of the Earth.

It was hard to work up the urgency to make herself move faster, but Jennifer succeeded, pulling herself through the last of the bleacher supports. She found herself in a carpeted corridor lit by overhead fluorescent lamps, and immediately solidified and leaned shakily against the corridor wall. She still felt distant and disoriented and her head swam with vertigo. It had been close, but she'd solidified in time. She realized that she had to be careful about using her powers for a time, until she was certain that her system hadn't been overtaxed.

Now, Jennifer thought, if she could only orient herself, she'd get the h.e.l.l out. The only problem was, she'd never been in the bowels of Ebbets Field before, and she had no idea where she was.

There was a double door at one end of the corridor. In the opposite direction the corridor branched. She had to go one way or the other, and Jennifer chose the doors. Unfortunately they were blank, with no windows set in them.

Well, she thought, if anyone questioned her she'd simply say she'd gotten lost. Although why she was wearing only a bikini might be hard to explain.

She took a deep breath, let it out noisily, and pushed the doors open. She took a step into a large, well-lit, richly carpeted room, and froze. The murmur of a dozen conversations gradually died down as all eyes in the room turned toward her.

I don't believe it, she told herself. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them a moment later everyone was still there, staring. I don't believe I just walked into the Dodgers' locker room.

Twenty men were in the room. Some were playing cards in small groups, some were talking. Hernandez, the first baseman, was sitting by his locker doing his customary pre-game crossword puzzle. Pete Reiser himself, sixtyish, gray-haired but still lean and arrow straight, was standing in front of Seaver's locker, talking with the pitcher and the Dodgers' Cuban pitching coach, Fidel Castro. Some of the players still had their practice jerseys on, some had started to change to their game uniforms. Some hadn't gotten very far in the change.

Jennifer, feeling the pressure of all those eyes on her, felt she should say something, but when she opened her mouth no words would come.

"Uh . . ." She tried again. "Uh . . . good luck today."

A small metallic snuff box slipped out of the hand of Thurman Munson, veteran Dodger catcher and team captain, and the sudden sound it made as it clattered against the stool in front of his locker broke the spell that seemed to hold everyone.

A dozen players spoke at once, from Reiser's strident, "How the h.e.l.l did you get in here? to half a dozen variations on, "Jeez, nice body" and "Great outfit."

Jennifer, mortified, forgot her earlier worries and ghosted through the nearest wall into a small room with a drug cabinet, a couple of empty padded tables, a bunch of incomprehensible machines, and a dripping Dwight Gooden climbing naked out of the whirlpool.

"Hey!" he said as she went by.

"Great game yesterday," Jennifer said, smiling weakly. He slid back into the whirlpool, ducking down so the water came up to his chin, and stared in disbelief as she pa.s.sed though the wall next to the whirlpool.

Great body, too, Jennifer told herself, sneaking a final peek before she vanished.

As a capo working for Rosemary's father, Don Carlo Gambione, Don Frederico "the Butcher" Macellaio had once ordered Bagabond's death. Bagabond had not forgotten. Standing beside an oak in a nearly deserted Central Park, she started toward Central Park West and was glad most of New York appeared to be down at Jetboy's Tomb. She felt conspicuous in the brown tweed business suit and high heels she'd scavenged from one of her subterranean stashes. But this way none of the normal denizens of the park could possibly recognize her. A few of the street people had seen too much over the years; it was best to be . . . discreet. She slid her aching left foot out of the shoe and stood, weight on her right leg, as she watched Don Frederico exit his exclusive apartment building. The sheltering canopy said The Luxor. Dressed in an expensively tailored black suit, the Butcher crossed the sidewalk to a white Cadillac stretch limousine.

He was flanked by two guards in dark gla.s.ses and unb.u.t.toned suit jackets. Getting into the car, Don Frederico s.n.a.t.c.hed the door out of his chauffeur's hand and slammed it. The driver paused for a fraction of a second before turning sharply around and getting into the car. One of the guards got into the front seat beside the driver, while the other appeared to scan the sidewalk and Central Park West in both directions.

The limousine pulled out and crossed against horn-blowing traffic to enter the park at the West Drive. With disbelief, Rosemary had once told her about the don's habits. It was always the same route. The don was either very stupid or very self-a.s.sured. A show of power. Knowing the limo would drive across the Transverse, then exit onto 65th and cruise past Temple Emanu-El to the Butcher's favorite restaurant, Aronica's, Bagabond walked at an oblique angle through the park. She mentally summoned a flock of pigeons and nearly a hundred squirrels. They waited at the stone bridge near the middle of the drive.

As Bagabond walked across the park to meet them, a large gray cat, one of the black's and calico's offspring, dropped out of a lightning-warped maple tree to block her path.

The gray was one of the few kittens at least as intelligent as his parents. He had refused to join Bagabond's group of animals when he understood how Bagabond used the creatures to her advantage, sometimes without caring about the effect on the animals' lives. The gray had chosen to live apart in a section of Central Park Bagabond used only in-frequently. He resented her presence.

Now Bagabond told him she would not be there long. The cat imaged dead bodies scattered across the landscape. Bagabond stiffened and told him to leave her. He turned and trotted a few yards away, before he turned and spat at her. She reached out with her mind to attack, but stopped before she burned out his brain. The gray disappeared into a stand of maples. Clenching her fists, Bagabond stood watching the cat.

Then she was abruptly aware of the progress of the don's car. A peregrine, escaped from a would-be urban falconer, was Bagabond's eye, following the Butcher's car as it cruised through the park. There were no colors, but the perception of movement caught her consciousness as the falcon's eyes roamed across the park. She brought him gliding back around to follow the Butcher's car. According to Rosemary's file, Don Frederico Macellaio used this daily drive to order the deaths of his opponents from his armored, surveillance-proof car. Bagabond leaned back against a broad tree trunk, kicked off her shoes, and concentrated on directing her animals.

As she began the mental routine of organizing and directing the birds and animals she had summoned, Bagabond realized that the gray was hiding among the maples and observing her. She warned him off, but he responded with an image of himself marking the trees to show his territory. She ignored him as the don's car drew closer to the spot she had chosen.

She found she was nervous at the car's approach. The gray had broken her concentration. He had a gift for making her think in ways she normally avoided. The Butcher was Rosemary's enemy as well as her own. She had learned from the animals themselves to kill or be killed. The Butcher was a threat that had to be removed. Besides, it would please Rosemary. It was obvious to Bagabond that Rosemary was too worried about too many things. Her concern with the Gambiones had become consuming. With a new don, she could relax and spend more time with Bagabond. Bagabond wanted that enough to disturb the rhythms and lives of her creatures. To To kill kill them them.

She closed the gray out of her mind and sent pain pain down the connection joining them. The gray yowled as she felt the energy hit him. down the connection joining them. The gray yowled as she felt the energy hit him.

The part of her mind that was organizing the birds had completed that task. The flocks of pigeons temporarily roosted in the trees around the bridge. For an instant, there was an unnatural stillness.

Breaking out of the trees, gleaming as the sun hit the finish, the limousine proceeded around the corner on its stately way. The mirrored windshield reflected the tree branches overhead.

A lone pigeon wheeled free of the flock and, at Bagabond's command, sent itself soaring high into the sky. Then it hurled itself down at the limousine's windshield as though intending to land on one of the phantom trees. Blood splattered the white paint of the hood. The driver braked and seemed to hesitate for an instant before continuing.

Bagabond watched the scene in fragments seen through the eyes of the hawk now behind the car and the pigeons above and before the limousine. Her own eyes were wide and staring, but the other visions overwhelmed her human sight. She damped the pain of the pigeon in the same way she removed from her consciousness the constant deaths she normally experienced.

Overhead, a hundred birds stopped cooing as she took them over completely. The avian wave swept down toward the car, covering it in a cloak of blood and feathers. The limousine's brakes shrieked as the driver attempted a panic-stop before his blindness wrecked the car.

Keeping more of the pigeons in reserve, Bagabond shifted her attention to the hordes of squirrels gathered in the lower branches of the oaks and maples lining the road. As she directed a battalion of squirrels toward the swerving car, pain careened across her own mind. Her first thought was that either the black or the calico was in trouble. But tracing their individual patterns within her awareness of the city's wild ones told her that the cats were well. The The gray gray. He deliberately was inflicting pain on himself, trying to destroy her concentration. Bagabond reprimanded him mentally, sending waves of emotional chill, stunning his rebellion.

Only a few seconds had pa.s.sed. But the driver was close to regaining control when the roadway become a moving carpet of squirrels. The driver had accelerated to escape the birds. Bagabond sent the animals under the wheels of the car. The shrieks of the dying squirrels mixed with the sound of abused brakes. The heavy car's momentum carried it across the ma.s.sed rodents. Their blood greased the road and the limousine skidded sideways. Now the doors and side panels were streaked and spattered with blood.

Bagabond's head snapped to the side as feedback from the gray flooded her mind. This time he was not satisfied with distraction; now he tried to disperse the animals, using Bagabond as a focus. Her anger streamed out, knocking him unconscious. She might have killed him, but her attention was needed at the bridge.

The driver had overcorrected for the skid and sent the car into a spin. The right wheels struck the low guardrail, bending it out. The ma.s.s of the car's armor-plate sent it crashing through the retaining wall and over the side. Streaks of white paint remained on the metal and concrete. One wheel cover was slung free. It preceded the limousine over the edge, skimming slowly through the air like a Frisbee. The automobile wasn't so fortunate.

Time, for Bagabond, seemed to stop as she watched the car roll over in the air. One part of her was ending the lives of the birds and squirrels injured in the attack. Another part considered the murder and wondered if it was worth the cost to help a friend and take revenge.

The vehicle plunged to the jogging path. It landed hard on the concrete trail, crushing the roof of the pa.s.senger compartment flush with the body. The car rocked to a halt and burst into a whuffing whuffing ball of flame. ball of flame.

Sacrificing a few animals to feed others had been nothing compared to this carnage she saw as she looked around at the bridge. Bodies were scattered everywhere. She felt a pain she had not experienced since first learning to distance the lives of her animals from her own. Maybe the gray had been right to attempt to stop her. The side of her mind she considered human was happy for her success, eager to find out Rosemary's reaction. The animal side wanted to reject what she had done.

Abruptly, Bagabond realized that the remaining creatures waited patiently for her instructions. The dark cloud of pigeons rose into the sky and dispersed in all directions. No one saw the undulating ma.s.s of squirrels break apart and run for the wooded sections of the park. Bagabond was already hidden by the trees and walking toward the subway entrance at Columbus Circle.

Before she could cross 59th Street, the recovered gray confronted her with the image of what she had done, an image that changed into a picture of her her lying b.l.o.o.d.y and broken on the ground. lying b.l.o.o.d.y and broken on the ground.