"Hi, Earl," Jack said.
"Man, you're slow," Earl said. "We're supposed to be flying out of here by now."
"I can't fly, Earl. I'm not like you."
"Slow, farm boy." Earl was grinning. "Slow."
Jack was mildly surprised when they both began to fly. The Marriott Marquis was gone and they were in the sky, heading toward the sun. The sun began to get brighter and brighter.
"Hey, Earl," Jack said. "What's going on here?"
"You'll work it out sooner or later, farm boy."
The sun was almost blinding, the yellow light turning whiter and whiter, all color leached away. Jack saw other people there, guys from the 5th Division and Korea, his parents, his older brother. The were all flying, rising into the sky. Blythe van Renssaeler neared him and gave him a shy smile.
"Damn. He's asystolic," she said. "Flat line."
"Huh?" Jack looked at her.
Archibald Holmes strode confidently toward him, dressed in a white linen suit. He lit a cigarette and put it in its holder.
"Hi, Mr. Holmes."
"Okay," Holmes said. "I got the ET down his throat. Where's the bag?"
"Why does he keep glowing on and off like that?" Blythe asked.
"Can't help it, really," Jack shrugged.
"Start 02," said Holmes. "I'm going to shoot some epinephrine down the endotrachial tube. I'll want a milligram of atropine in a minute."
Jack looked around and saw that Earl was holding hands with a long-legged woman with blonde hair tousled over one eye and broad, padded shoulders.
"You must be Lena Goldoni," he said. "I've seen your pictures."
"We've got fibrillation," said Lena.
"Slow," Earl said, shaking his head. "Farm boys are so slow." His scarf was rippling in an invisible wind.
Jack realized he was here with almost all the old Four Aces crowd, everyone except David Harstein, and he began to wonder if he should apologize for what he'd done to them, how he'd destroyed them all. But they all seemed so happy to see him he decided not to mention it.
More people were clustering around him. Some of them he'd forgotten he'd known. Even Chester the Chimp, who'd played opposite Jack in Tarzan of the Apes, was there, riding on someone's shoulders.
"Give him three-hundred joules," said the ape. "Stop CPR. Clear! Clear, Goddamn it! Get your hand off that metal rail, will you, Lois?"
The light was getting brighter and brighter. Circling around them, the rays seemed almost palpable, like the walls of a tunnel. Jack felt his speed increase as he shot toward the source of the light. He began to hear people singing, a million voices raised in joy.
The light grew nearer, not just white light but the White Light. Jack's heart lifted. He began to understand what it was that Earl wanted him to know.
"Three-hundred-sixty!" shrieked the ape. "Clear! Clear!" Jack stretched out his arms and prepared to dive into the heart of the White Light. Suddenly he seemed to hesitate in his progress. He was slowing down. Desperately he tried to speed up. He longed to fly farther.
He realized the White Light was looking at him.
"What a weenie," the White Light said. "Get that weenie outta here."
Jack coughed and opened his eyes and saw people crouched over him, men and women he recognized from Gregg Hartmann's Secret Service detail, working with emergency medical equipment that was part of their standard issue. He felt an ache in his solar plexus and he couldn't stop coughing. Jack looked up over their heads, saw blood-flecked concrete walls and steep stair risers.
"Normal sinus rhythm," one said. "We got pulse. We got pressure." He spoke in Archibald Holmes's voice. A couple of the others cheered.
A tall brown-haired woman was speaking into a walkietalkie. "Ambulance on its way." The voice was Blythe's.
"I blew it," Jack tried to say. He couldn't talk over the endotrachial tube they'd slid down his throat. "I blew it again." He was too weak too feel much emotion over it.
The ambulance crew arrived and carried him away.
8:00 P.M.
He had himself well in hand. The emotional devastation of an hour ago was passed. Jack was dead. The friendship, the man he had known as Gregg Hartmann was dead. Chrysalis was dead. Very well. So be it. He was in control now. He would do what had to be done.
But these officious twits were arguing with him. Mouths moving, gums and tongues red against black and whitefaces. "I'm telling you the reverend is busy. You don't have an appointment," said the black aide patiently, as if explaining addition to a retarded child.
"He will see me. I am Tachyon," explained the alien in the same patient, condescending tone.
"Go and phone. Use appropriate channels," said Straight Arrow calmly.
"I don't have time for appropriate channels," snapped Tachyon. His control was unraveling like line reeling from a fly fishing rod.
"It's late," put in the aide.
The door to the suite was partially ajar. Tachyon measured the gap between the two far bigger men. It would accommodate him. Wriggling like a fish he darted between them, and through the door.
"HEY!"
Shouts. A wall of people advancing upon him. Phones shrilling. A television pouring its electronic inanities into the crowded suite.
"Get out of my way! GET OUT OF MY WAY! WHERE IS HE? I MUST SEE HIM!" His voice ringing shrilly in his own ears.
"You can't just waltz in here-" bawled Straight Arrow. People had gripped him by arms and legs, lifting him completely off the ground. Tach screamed with fury, and writhed in their grasps. Mind-controlling people frantically, he felt the holds on him loosen, then jerk tight again as new people stepped forward to replace those he had dropped slumbering to the floor.
The connecting door to the bedroom flew open, banging violently into the far wall. Jesse Jackson, reading glasses clutched in his hand, glared at his supporters, and roared, "LET HIM GO!"
The two oldest Jackson sons pushed back the irate staffers. The very pretty and very self-possessed Jackie Jackson helped Tachyon smooth his coat. Slowly order was restored. Jesse Jackson beckoned to Tachyon, and he joined him in the bedroom. The door closed, blocking off the worst of the noise, and the curious gawking faces.
"Here." Tachyon opened his eyes. Jackson had thrust a hotel glass filled with scotch under his nose. "You believe in making an entrance, don't you, Doctor? You couldn't have just called and asked to see me?"
Tach pressed a hand to his eyes. "I didn't think." Squaring his shoulders he pushed up and off the wall that had been supporting him. "Call a press conference, Reverend. You have just become the new, best hope for the wild cards."
Jackson seemed bereft of words. He slapped his hand against his thigh then took several quick turns about the cramped room.
"Why?" His tone and expression were equally grim. "Upon reflection I have become convinced of the strength of your arguments."
"Bull. You roar in here like a madman. You're shaking like a leaf… " Desperately Tachyon clasped his hands, trying to still the betraying tremors. "What's happened?"
The Takisian flung out a hand in a sharp jagged gesture. "Do you want what I am offering you, or not?"