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hard. Then he did the same to the other one. He dragged them by the ankles into the shadows behind the dumpster and moved away down the 22

    alley, limping from the pain in his left knee. His back was throbbing and he could feel a thin trickle of blood warming his right cheek, but he couldn't tell if it was his head or his face. The face worried him. Muggers. Jesus.

    The Senator sat back in his chair and watched a commercial for new cars.
    There wasn't really anything in it about cars, but there was a small Japanese car there, and a lot of enthusiastic Americans cavorting around it, showing surprise and pleasure and amazement to a spirited musical score.

    Then the news came on. Carlson went over and turned the volume up a little. Not enough so the Senator would have to take notice of the fact that Carlson knew he was old and probably didn't hear as well as he used to. Just enough to make explicit the view they shared, that commercials were a kind of atmospheric interference but the speech at the airport was the very essence of importance.

    A newsman was saying, "Congress ended its regular session today and began its mid-session break. We'll have footage of Senator McKinley Claremont's return to Denver . There was a brief flareup of fighting in the Middle East, an earthquake shook Central America, and New England is wracked in the worst snowstorm in twenty years. More about these and other stories in a moment."

    The Japanese car commercial came on again. "It's the same commercial exactly," said the Senator, peering at the screen in amazement as the enthusiastic Americans mugged and pantomimed their way through the song again. "Carlson! When did they start doing that?"

    "Doing what, Senator?"

    "Playing the same damned commercial twice in a row?”

    “Are they? I didn't notice," said Carlson.

6

    He moved as quickly as he could. There'd be plenty of time to baby the bumps and bruises later when there wasn't anybody to watch him do it, but now the important thing was to get back to the motel room and out of sight before anybody found the bodies. He made a quick inventory as he walked—there was a tear in the left knee of his pants, and the whole suit was dusty. With effort he brushed himself off. There was definitely blood on his face, but that was easily taken care of. He pulled out his handkerchief and brought it to his right cheek, but had to stifle a yelp at the pain.

    "Damn," he muttered, wishing vaguely that there was something more he could do to them. There was no question it would show: by morning there would be a bruise, and the swelling had already started. He just hoped there wouldn't be a scar. Maybe all the blood was coming from beyond the hairline. "Damn!" he 23

    said again, under his breath. "Stupid. Rocks and clubs, like animals. Baboons!"

    Down the alley he could see the pool of light of the motel parking lot. He stopped to listen for a car coming his way, but there was nothing. He was surprised to see that he still had his newspaper. He didn't remember picking it up. But a wave of relief washed over him. He opened the paper as though he had been reading it since he parked his car down the alley. Then he took a deep breath and came around the corner of the motel, heading for the back stairway.
    He heard a door somewhere in the other wing slamming but he kept on going, trying hard not to limp. His ears picked up the sound of keys jangling and muffled voices, but he kept on going, gritting his teeth against the pain. Up the stairs he climbed, using the handrail to keep the weight off the leg. He swung around with the paper under his arm, keeping his left side to the light as long as he could, then pressing his face so close to the wall it almost touched while he unlocked the door.

    He was inside, and breathing hard. He carefully stripped off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, then walked into the bathroom. The mirrored wall told him what he had feared. He stared at it, and what stared