"How bad do I look?" he asked Evelyn after Saber had gone back to the flight deck.
"As if you've been in a fight. And lost." She held up a mirror: His face was bruised and he had two black eyes.
"A lot of people dead tonight," he said.
She nodded. "We heard."
He hovered between exhaustion and horror.
And there was more bad news. Saber called Evelyn up to the flight deck. When she came back she said they'd received word that communication had never been restored with the early flight. It was presumed lost with a hundred and one passengers and three crew.
They were all thinking about it, running the names of friends and colleagues, trying to recall who had been scheduled on which flight.
One hundred four people. It was minuscule compared to the vast numbers who had died on the ground. But it personalized the losses. Rick and Sam and God knew who else and a million others.
It was the darkest night in human memory. Manhattan. 4:01 A.M.
Larry stood by Marilyn's side, peering out over the rooftops and down at the new sea. Manhattan had become a cluster of concrete islands. The city was dark. The shattered Moon had long since set. "Goddam government," he said. "They told us there was nothing to worry about."
Someone pointed a flashlight over the side of the roof. Its beam bobbed up and down in the water. There were bodies.
Marilyn turned away. She'd been unable to sleep, and had eventually rejoined the quiet group gathered around a battery-powered radio.
The terrace doors were open and the curtains moved in a soft breeze. Approximately thirty people were still present. A few, who had drunk too much early in the evening, were asleep. The others looked listless and frightened.
Marilyn had relatives in Boston and friends on the Outer Banks. She'd tried to call them, but got only busy signals and recordings ("The number you dialed is currently receiving maintenance…") until about three. Now the phone was completely dead.
The rooms were lighted by candles. "I wonder what our place looks like," she asked Larry. Their apartment was on the third floor, a high third floor, and should have been above water. But it was an effort to care. "We should try to get home," she said.
"How do you suggest we do that, love?"
She was surprised at the sense of disconnectedness that had come over her. She almost didn't care about anything. But she knew there were things to be said, pretenses to be made.
Louise was in the kitchen. There was no running water, of course. Louise had broken open a bottle of spring water and was pouring out a small portion for one of accountants. "Make it last, Bill," she said.
"Is that the entire supply?" asked Marilyn.
Louise looked at the container. About a gallon remained.
"This is it," she said. "We need to start thinking how we're going to manage if help doesn't come."
"Help'll come," said the accountant.
"I think," said Marilyn, "Louise is right."
Louise looked as if she hadn't slept all night. She's been worrying about how she'll feed everybody, Marilyn realized.
Larry came in behind her. "Maybe we should start by figuring out how we'll manage breakfast," he said. "Is there a grocery in the neighborhood?"
Louise nodded. Her customary energy had evaporated. "One block over toward Broadway. Across the street. It's called Barney's. But I'd think it's underwater at the moment."
"Listen," said the accountant, "the whole world knows we're caught here. Let's not go running off half-cocked. All we need to do is be patient."
"No." Marvin stepped into the candlelight. His voice sounded an octave deeper than usual. "I don't think we should just wait here to see what happens to us." He looked at Marilyn, and turned to Louise: "Is there anything in the building we can use for a raft?"
9.
White House, Oval Office. 4:07 A.M.
Nonessential personnel had been packed off and whisked away. Henry, who'd been on the phone with the Brazilian president, had watched them go with a sense of being on a sinking ship. The agents had refused to leave, and they now manned the front gate. All other entrances had been sealed. Save for the president, several of his top aides, the Secret Service, and the half-dozen officers staffing the situation room, the White House was empty. As a precaution, Kerr had brought in three Marine helicopters, which waited on the lawn, rotors slowly turning.
The president's phone rang. "General Wilson on the line, sir," said the army captain who'd replaced his secretary.
"Yes, Bob?" said the president.
"Mr. President, we're retargeting the birds, as you requested. We'll be ready to launch as soon as it passes."
"Good." Thank God. At least something was going right. "You have authorization to fire, Bob. But not until it's on the way out."
"Yes, sir. That's exactly how we'll handle it."
"Don't want any radioactive pieces falling on China."
"No, sir."
Others besides Feinberg had become aware of the threat offered by POSIM-38, and the story had seeped into the media. The Rocky Mountain News, in its electronic edition, noted that the object looked vaguely like a tombstone. Several editorial cartoons using the object had already turned up, including one that showed Henry contemplating his own gravesite, marked by a stone that resembled the Possum.
Well, they were right about that. Whatever happened now, Henry's obituary had been written and published.
Lightning crackled on the roof. It was as bad a storm as any Henry could remember in all his years in the District. The experts thought it was another storm spawned by moon-rock.
Kerr's familiar rap sounded at the door.
"Come," said the president.
The door opened cautiously and the chief of staff looked into the office. "Are you all right, Henry?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Kerr was standing awkwardly. The way he did when there was a problem. "What's wrong, Al?"
"More waves coming," he said. "Three to four hours. West Coast this time."
• • • County Route 6, southwest of San Francisco. 1:19 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time (4:19 A.M. EDT).
The reports of the assorted disasters coming in from around the country, contrasted with the quiet wilderness in which the Kapchik family rested, lent the telecasts an air of unreality. It was as if they were watching an end-of-the-world television drama, running simultaneously on all channels. The glimmering mist that had replaced the Moon had itself gone behind a bank of clouds. A gentle wind blew out of the west, and the night was cool and pleasant. The mountainside on which they'd camped had filled up with people who traded food, coffee, and alcohol, and generally clustered together with the kind of community spirit that only shared risk could bring. They watched the images with dismay and pity, and they did not speak of the curious secret joy they felt for having escaped the disaster that had overtaken so many. After a while Marisa turned the set off.
She'd given up trying to sleep, and sat propped against a tree, wearing an extra woolen shirt. Her eyes drifted shut. She could smell campfires and coffee. A lot of people were still awake, talking to one another in subdued voices. Jerry had crawled into a sleeping bag with the kids, and now snored softly. Cars and trucks continued to roll east.