He was very cold but not frightened anymore. There was a high vibration in his skull that reassured him. Reuben suddenly decided to fight the reassurance and his whole body stiffened, slamming his head against the fence so hard the wood cracked.

That sobered him. What parts of his head could still think, urged caution. He could taste blood in his mouth. This is how an animal feels in the wild when the zoo people come, he thought.

The vibration continued, waxing and waning, lulling him even through the bone-chilling cold and damp. He tried several times to get up, but he had no control over his limbs; they tingled as if asleep.

He felt a crawling behind his head. A spider delicately climbed down the front of his coat, legs prodding and lifting the edge of his hip pocket where it lay rucked up in his lap. The thing disappeared into the pocket, legs folding as it entered. The bulge it made was barely noticeable.

His legs stopped tingling. With some effort, Reuben stood, wobbling back and forth uncertainly. He checked himself over and found no injuries, no blood or evidence of abrasions, and only a few tender bruises. When his hand went toward his pocket, he thought better of it — or rather, something else urged caution — and slowly withdrew his arm. Hand held idly out, shivering and puzzled, Reuben looked around the alley for more of the spiders. They were gone.

The mouse lay still beside the dumpster. Reuben was allowed to kneel and examine the tiny carcass.

It had been neatly dissected, its purple, brown, and pink shiny organs laid out to one side, incisions made here and there, as if samples had been taken.

“I have to go home,” Reuben said to nobody or nothing in particular.

He was allowed to finish his walk home.

32

Arthur was delayed three days unexpectedly in Las Vegas to speak informally with three congressmen from the House Judiciary Committee. His first evening back home, back with his family and the river and the forest, he sat on the living room throw rug, legs curled into a lotus. Francine and Marty sat on the couch behind him. Marty had laid the fire in the grate all by himself, lighting the carefully placed tinder with a long match.

“Here’s what’s happening, really, as much as I know,” he said, raising himself on his arms and sweeping his locked legs around to face them. And he told them.

The heater came on at midnight and blew warm air over Arthur and Francine as they lay in bed in each other’s arms. Francine’s head rested on his shoulder. He could feel her eye movements as she stared into darkness. They had just made love and it had been very good, and against all his intellectual persuasions, he felt good, at home, at rest. Not a word had been said between them for fifteen minutes.

She lifted her head. “Marty—”

The phone rang.

“Oh, Christ.” She rolled out of his way. He reached across her to pick up the phone.

“Arthur, Chris Riley here. I’m sorry I woke you up—”

“We’re awake,” Arthur said.

“Yes. This is a bit of an emergency, I think. There are some guys in Hawaii who’d like to talk with you. They heard I knew your home number. You can call them now or I—”

“I’d like to be incommunicado, Chris, at least for a couple of days.”

“I think this could be very important, Arthur.”

“All right, what is it.”

“From the little they’ve told me, they might have found the — you know, what the press is talking about, the weapon the aliens might use against us.”

“Who are they?”

“One is Jeremy Kemp. He’s a conceited son of a bitch and hell to deal with, but he’s an excellent geologist. The other two are oceanographers. Ever hear of Walt Sam-show?”

“I think so. Wrote a textbook I read in college. He’s pretty old, isn’t he?”

“He and another fellow named Sand are with Kemp in Hawaii. They say they saw something pretty unusual.”

“All right. Give me a phone number.” He switched on the light over the nightstand.

“Samshow and Sand are on board a ship in Pearl Harbor.” Riley enunciated the number and name of the ship for him. “Ask for Walt or David.”

“Thanks, Chris,” Arthur said, hanging up.

“No rest?” Francine asked.

“Some people think they might have found the smoking gun.”

“Jesus,” Francine said softly.

“I’d better call them now.” He got out of bed and went into the den to use the extension there. Francine followed a few minutes later, wrapped in her robe.

When he had finished with the call, he turned and saw Marty standing beside her, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m going to San Francisco this weekend,” he said. “But I’ve still got a couple of days with you guys.”

“Show me how to use the telescope, Dad?” Marty asked sleepily. “I want to see what’s going on.”

Arthur picked the boy up and carried him back to his bedroom.

“Were you and Mom making love?” Marty asked as Arthur lay him down in the bed and pulled the covers over him.

“You got it, Big Ears,” Arthur said.

“That means you love Mom. And she loves you.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’ll go away but you’ll come back again?”

“As soon as I can.”

“If we’re all going to die, I want you both here, with me, all of us together,” Marty said.

Arthur held his son’s hand for a long moment, eyes moist, throat gnarled with love and a deep, inexpressible anguish. “We’ll start with the telescope tomorrow, and you can look tomorrow night,” he finally said in a harsh whisper.

“So I can see them come,” Marty said.

Arthur could not lie. He hugged his son firmly and stood by the bed until Marty’s eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly.

“It’s one o’clock,” Francine said as he slipped under the covers beside her.

They made love again, and it was even better.

“Gauge! Bad dog! Dammit, Gauge, that’s a frozen chicken. You can’t eat that. All you can do is ruin it.” Francine stomped her foot in fury and Gauge slunk from the kitchen, berry-colored tongue lolling, ashamed but pleased with himself.

“Wash it off,” Arthur suggested, sliding past Gauge to stand in the kitchen door, grinning.

Francine held the thoroughly toothed but whole bird in two hands, shaking her head. “He’s mangled it. Every bite will have his mark.”

“Bites within bites,” Arthur said. “How recursive.”

“Oh, shut up. Two days home and this.”

“Blame it on me, go ahead,” Arthur said. “I need a little domestic guilt.”

Francine put the bird back on the countertop and opened the sliding glass door. “Martin! Where are you? Come chastise your dog for me.”

“He’s outside with the telescope.” Arthur examined the chicken sadly. “If we don’t eat it, that’s one bird’s life wasted,” he said.

“Dog germs,” Francine argued.

“Hell, Gauge licks us all the time. He’s just a puppy. He’s still a virgin.”

Dinner — the same bird, skinned and carefully trimmed — was served at seven. Marty seemed dubious about his portion of leg and thigh, but Arthur warned him his mother would not take kindly to their being overfastidious.

“You made me cook it,” she said.

“Anything interesting?” Arthur asked his son, pointing up.

“It’s all twinkly out there,” Marty said.

“Clear night tonight?” Arthur asked.

“It’s slushy and cold,” Francine said.

“Lots of stars, but I mean…you know. Twinkly like faraway firecrackers.”

Arthur stopped chewing. “Stars?”

“You told me only supernovas would get bright and go out,” Marty said seriously. “Is that what they are?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s go look.”

Francine dropped her wing in disgust. “Go ahead. Abandon dinner. Arthur—”

“Just for a minute,” he said. Marty followed. After hanging back by the service porch door for a minute in protest, Francine joined them in the backyard.