The agents had survived their journey back and forth inside the Twenty 'n Six with just a few bumps and bruises; they were loaded into one van, which departed immediately. Hunter folded his plane up and joined Tomm at the second vehicle.
"Was it as bad as we envisioned?" the priest asked, handing him a flask of Seagram's.
"Worse," Hunter replied, taking a healthy slug of the whiskey. He loved the way it burned going down his throat.
"Gordon has arranged a huge meeting," Tomm told him. "They are expecting your report. I fear you will have no good news to tell them."
Hunter took another drink from the flask. "I don't think there will be anything resembling good news for a very long time, Father."
"Well, there is one unusual thing," Tomm told him cautiously. "I was able to talk to the individual representatives from the other Home Planets before you took them home. I checked with Gordon, too, on the damage reports caused that day you went off to recon the sentinel moons. A very odd circumstance has emerged."
Hunter felt his whole body sag. The devastation he'd caused that day throughout the system, though unwittingly, had haunted him ever since. Damage could be repaired, and injuries could heal, but he alone was responsible for the lives that had been lost.
"That's just it," Tomm said, reading his mind. "I checked Gordon's damage report and those of the thirty-five other planets. It's very curious—"
Hunter took a third swig from the flask. "Are you saying you now know how many people I killed that day?"
Tomm had a strange twinkle in his eye. "Yes, I do," he replied. "None."
Hunter stared back at him, the flask halfway to his lips for a fourth time.
"None?"
Tomm nodded. "There were injuries, and there was destruction, but no deaths. Not a single soul lost."
Hunter was dumbfounded. The aftereffects of his time shifting within the time bubble had been catastrophic. He'd seen a lot of the destruction himself. He'd thought the death toll would be in the thousands.
"But how, Padre?" was all he could say.
Tomm just shook his head. "Do you believe in miracles, my son?"
Relief was swelling inside Hunter's chest. It seemed impossible that everyone in the entire system had survived the bout with reversed time. Yet miracles were essentially the impossible coming true. But could that be the only explanation?
"Miracles? I don't know, Father," Hunter finally replied. "That's your department."
The CIA blue room was crowded.
The place had been built big for a reason, but never with this many people in mind.
They were called simply the Space Crisis Group. A hastily picked collection of American government, scientific, religious, and law enforcement bigwigs, they were close to four hundred in all. They'd been whisked here under the tightest security and briefed individually or in small groups by Gordon's people. Then they'd been introduced to Hunter, Zarex, and Tomm and told where the spacemen had come from. They'd been given a demonstration of the spacemen's exotic technology, from losing things into a Twenty 'n Six to seeing Hunter's flying machine make its dramatic entrance. Even the danker 33418 was finally brought out of the twenty-sixth to show his remarkable talents. Zarex was very relieved to have him back at his side.
All this had been done to convince those assembled very quickly that there was no question that the three visitors were from outer space and that they had discovered a grave threat to the people of Planet America and on the other Home Planets as well.
The oval table had been replaced with a smaller one, and a stage had been erected in front of the room's big screen. Five people were sitting at this table: Gordon, the President, Hunter, Zarex, and Tomm. The Space Crisis Group was sitting as an audience in many squeaky folding chairs. Armed guards ringed the room.
The meeting was called to order. Gordon explained now that the team had been briefed on the Moon 39 problem, it was time to talk about how best to prepare the planet should there be an invasion from space. This would be no easy task. Up until two weeks ago, the planet didn't even know what a war was, never mind having a military to fight one.
Gordon gave the microphone over to Hunter. He briefed the crisis team on his spy mission to Planet France. Then he proceeded to drop a bombshell.
"I don't know who," he began, "but someone once said the best defense is a good offense. Once the BMK has finished with Planet France, they will go back to Moon 39, and just as long as Planet America doesn't launch any spacecraft, things will be as they always were. There will be peace, and life will go on. But it certainly won't be real peace. That only comes when people are truly free. Free to make up their own minds on where they want their culture to go. If we do nothing, the people of this planet will have everything except what they need the most: the freedom to leave. To go out into the Galaxy. To expand to new horizons.
"These things will never happen unless the BMK is con-fronted. We are the only ones who can do it. It won't be easy. They outnumber us many times over, and even with help from the other Home Planets, the numbers will always be in their favor. Yet I believe it has to be done. And done now."
That's when someone in back — a cop — stood up and shouted, "My question is: Why are we Americans suddenly taking advice from a bunch of freaks?"
Someone else piped up, "How do we know that they aren't in cahoots with these space invaders? They're from outer space, too. They probably all stick together."
Gordon angrily leapt to the spacemen's defense. He began ticking off the contributions they had made — especially Hunter — during the search for truth on Moon 39. But Hunter just lifted his hand, politely cutting Gordon off.
The room got very silent. Hunter stared into his whiskey glass. These were good questions that had been asked. He would have felt uneasy had someone not asked them.
"There was a time not too long ago," he began, "when I thought I would never know where I came from. It's a strange thing, not being able to call someplace your home. I think there is something very human about it. We all need someplace to be from. Now, I will probably never know how I wound up here, in this time and space. But I do know one thing: I believe there is a reason that I came here—to America and the Home Planets. I believe that I am supposed to be here."
He stopped and contemplated his whiskey glass for a few more seconds. An absolute hush had come over the room.
He went on, "I don't know any other way to explain it other than I feel that I am an American. I feel it in my bones. I think that's what drove me across billions of miles of space just to get here. In a way, I've been called home. Not to this place. This system isn't anyone's real home. This is our home in exile. Our real home is Earth… the center of the Galaxy. Someone back there owes us an explanation as to why the original Americans were sent here. If that means using force to find out the truth, then I think that's the way it has to be. That's just the American way of doing things."
More silence. No one moved. No one spoke — for at least a minute.
Finally someone said, "All right then, at least tell us your plan."
Hunter resisted draining what was left of his drink and started gnawing on his lip instead. Yes, he had a plan. It involved a huge gamble, and it wouldn't be pretty. But if they worked quickly, they might be able to let the BMK know that they were going to have to earn their money. No more rolling over. No more bolts out of the blue.
"The first thing we have to do," Hunter began. "Is to start a massive Civil Defense program, especially in our major cities. I will have to leave that to your expertise."