"What are we doing here?" Hank was saying. He was on his feet again, staring down at Carol where she sat on the sofa. He looked frightened. He glanced at Glaeken, at Jack who had appropriated Sylvia Nash's seat, then at Bill. "What do you want with Carol and me?"

"I brought you here so you could learn the truth," Carol said. "The truth about me."

"What truth? What you said about your son before? I didn't even know you had a son."

"Well, I do," she said, then looked away. "And I don't."

Bill caught a glimpse of the unfathomed pain in her eyes. He pressed his shoulder against the edge of the wall and leaned into it until it hurt. It took all his strength of will to hold back from rushing to her side.

"But what's that got to do with what's been going on in this room? Which, quite frankly, I don't understand one bit."

"My son is behind it all," Carol said in a small voice, without looking up.

Hank looked around again. "Will someone please tell me what's going on?"

Glaeken stepped forward. "Let me try, Mr. Treece. If you remember, a short while ago I told of a man named Rasalom who in ancient times sided with the Enemy and became its agent here. That man was imprisoned in Eastern Europe in the fifteenth century. He should have remained imprisoned forever, but the German Army inadvertently released him in 1941. Before he could get fully free, however, he was destroyed. Or at least appeared to have been destroyed. Through luck and unique circumstances, Rasalom was able to incorporate himself into the unborn body of a man who would grow to be James Stevens."

Bill noticed Hank glance sharply at Carol here—her last name had been Stevens when he'd met her.

"But Rasalom was powerless within Jim Stevens," Glaeken continued. "He could only watch the world pass by from within Jim's body. Until…Jim married Carol Nevins and they conceived a child. Rasalom became that child. He was reborn late in 1968. For decades he lay low while his new body matured, soaking up power from the world around him, from the wars and genocide in Southeast Asia, from the hatred in Africa and the Middle East, and from the countless spites, acrimonies, antipathies, rancors, and casual brutalities of everyday life as well. He was waiting for the proper time to make his move. A few months ago he discovered that he was unopposed here. His first overt move was with the sunrise on Wednesday morning. He has been steadily escalating since then."

Hank was staring at Carol. "Your son? I don't believe this. I don't believe any of it. Come on, Carol. I'm taking you home."

"This isn't going to go away, Hank," Carol said, meeting his gaze. "We've got to face it."

"Then we'll face it somewhere else. Anywhere but here. I can't think straight here."

Carol rose to her feet. "Okay. Somewhere else. But we've got to come to terms with this."

Bill wanted to stop them, make Hank believe, but it was not his place. He couldn't step between a man and wife, even if the wife was Carol.

Carol said goodbye, and thanked Glaeken. Hank said nothing. They left in silence.

Jack got up and walked over to where Glaeken stood.

"Do you hire out?" he said, clapping the old man on the back. "I mean, if I ever have guests I can't get to leave, will you come over and get rid of them for me?"

Glaeken smiled, and as concerned as Bill was about Carol, he had to laugh. It was good to laugh, especially since he wasn't sure when he'd have cause to laugh again.

3 • PREPARATIONS

"They're all crazy, aren't they?" Hank said as they turned left on 57th Street and walked east.

The police weren't letting anybody into Central Park, and they'd closed off the streets adjacent to it. There wasn't a cab to be had, so Carol and Hank had detoured south. The sun was high and warm and gleamed on Hank's scalp where his hair was thinning. Carol wished she'd worn lighter clothes.

"Who?" she said, though she knew very well who he meant.

"Your friends. They're nutty as fruitcakes. And they've infected you with their nuttiness."

Carol noticed how he watched her as he spoke. His expression was strained. He seemed desperate to hear her agree with him.

"Only Bill and Glaeken are my friends. I can only speak for them. And I assure you, Hank, they're not crazy."

"They're delusional, Carol. They've got to be!" It was almost a plea.

"Are the late sunrises and early sunsets delusions, Hank?" she said forcefully. She had to make him believe, make him understand. "Is that hole in Central Park a delusion? Were all those people killed last night another delusion?"

"Could be," Hank said. "We could all be suffering from mass hysteria of some sort."

"Tell me you really believe that."

"Okay. I don't. Just wishful thinking. But the world's rampant weirdness has no bearing on your friend Glaeken's delusions. I mean, just because the earth and the sky are acting crazy doesn't mean I have to swallow everything some demented old man has to say."

"Granted. But think about it: There's not a scientific authority in the world who can explain all the lunacy we've seen the past few days."

"More lunacy is not an explanation."

"It's true, Hank," Carol said. "I swear to you, it's true. I've seen too much that backs up what he says, things I wish I'd never seen. He's not crazy."

Hank's hazel eyes, paler that usual in the bright sunlight, searched her face.

"What sort of things have you seen?"

"Some other time. We'll sit down tonight with a bottle of wine and I'll tell you all the things I've been afraid to tell you."

They walked in silence awhile. Carol knew Hank was sifting and sorting everything he'd heard today. He was a scientist at heart. When he had it all filed in the proper slots, he'd be able to deal with it and come to a conclusion. It was the way he was. Not flashy, no dramatic epiphanies, but his insight was just as valid.

Screeching tires and cries of terror brought them up short. They turned and saw a yellow cab rising off the street, trunk first. The driver opened his door, hung by the seat belt, and dropped to the pavement.

"My God!" Carol cried when she saw the woman and child lean out the rear window and scream for help. "Can't somebody do something?"

She clutched Hank's arm and they watched in horror as the cab continued to rise, beginning a slow rotation as it cleared the tops of the surrounding buildings and kept on falling up.

Finally Hank pulled her away.

"Let's go. There's nothing we can do and I feel like some sort of vulture watching it."

Carol felt the same. The tragedy of the scene made her feel weak, yet there was a horrid fascination about it.

"Stay close to the buildings," Hank said. "That way we'll have something to grab on to if it happens to us."

They walked on in silence, stepping almost gingerly, wondering if a gravity hole lay in wait on the sidewalk ahead. But Carol could not help casting furtive glances over her shoulder. Each time, the taxi was higher.

When they reached Second Avenue they were supposed to turn uptown, but Hank stopped and squinted up at the sun. He was sweating. Finally he spoke.

"It doesn't look like it's traveling any faster."

Carol tried to look at it but it hurt her eyes.

"Do you think it is?"

"Something has to be moving faster." He turned and stared at her. His eyes were watering, the pupils tiny. "I mean, the sun doesn't move, we do. Earth's rotation on its axis—that's what determines the varying duration of daylight through the year. Shorter days would mean we're either rotating faster or the Earth's shifted on its axis. But the scientists say neither has happened. Yet the days are shortening. A paradox. The impossible is happening. If that's true, then the impossible—or the impossible-sounding—things Glaeken said could be true as well."