40

Hicks had stayed in Washington, hoping with a kind of desperate hope that there was still something he could do. The White House did not summon him. Beyond the occasional television interviews, fewer and fewer since the fiasco on Freefire, he was woefully unoccupied. His book had sold in a fresh spurt the past few weeks, but he had refused to discuss it with anybody. His publishers had given up on him.

He took long, cold walks in the snow, ranging a mile or more from the hotel in the gray midafternoons. The government was still paying his expenses; he was still ostensibly part of the task force, although nobody on the task force had talked with him since the President’s speech. Even after the extensive reports of explosions in the asteroids, he had been approached only by the press.

When he was not out walking, he sat in his room, dressed in an oatmeal-colored suit, his overcoat and rubbers laid out on the bed and the floor, staring at his image in the mirror above the desk. His eye tracked down slowly to the computer on the desktop, then to the blank television screen. He had never felt so useless, so between, in his life.

The phone rang, He stood and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Is this Mr. Trevor Hicks?” a young male voice asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Reuben Bordes. You don’t know me, but I’ve got a reason to see you.”

“Why? Who are you, Mr. Bordes?”

“I’m just a kid, actually, but my reason is good. I mean, I’m not dumb or crazy. I’m in the bus station right now.” The youth chuckled. “I went to a lot of trouble to find you. I went to the library and learned your publisher, and I called them, but they couldn’t give your address…you know.”

“Yes.”

“So I called them back a couple of days later, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and said I was with the local television station, and we wanted to interview you. They wouldn’t give me your address even then. So I figured you might be staying in hotels, and I started calling hotels. I’ve been doing that all day. I think I got lucky.”

“Why do you need to talk to me?”

“I’m not a nut, Mr. Hicks. But I’ve had some odd things happen to me in the last week. I’ve got some information. I know somebody…well, who wants to get in touch with you,”

The lines in Hicks’s face deepened. “I don’t think it’s worth the bother, do you?” He started to put the phone down.

“Mr. Hicks, wait. Please listen and don’t hang up just yet. This is important. I’d have to come out to the hotel and find you if you hung up.”

Oh, Christ, Hicks thought.

“I’m being told something now, something important.” The youth didn’t speak for a few seconds. “All right. I got it now. The asteroids. There’s a battle, there was a battle going on out there. There’s this place called Europa, it’s a moon but not our own, isn’t it? That wasn’t a battle. We have friends coming. They needed the…what was it, water under the ice in Europa? For power. And the rock way under the water and ice. To make more…things. Not like the machines in Australia and Death Valley. Do you understand?”

“No,” Hicks said. A spark went off in his head. Something intuited. The boy’s accent was urban, middle-western bland. His voice was resonant and he sounded convinced and rational, words crisp. “You could be a complete nut, whoever you are,” Hicks said.

“You said you’d take them home to meet your mom. Your mother. They heard you out around Europa. When they were building. Now they’re here. I found one dissecting a mouse, Mr. Hicks. Learning all about it. I think they want to help, but I’m very confused. They haven’t hurt me.”

Hicks remembered: he had made that statement in California, on a local radio show. It would have been very difficult for a midwestern teenager to have heard it.

There was something earnest and truly awed and frightened in the young man’s voice. Hicks glanced at the ceiling, licking his lips, realizing he had already made his decision.

He had always been something of a romantic. To stay in journalism so long, one had to secretly believe in events full of drama and significance, key moments, points of turnaround in history. He was beginning to shake with excitement. Instincts conflicting — reporter’s instincts, survival instincts.

“Can you come out to the hotel?” he asked.

“Yeah, I can take a cab.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’d rather be careful, you know. I’ll be in the middle of lots of people.” He hoped the lobby was crowded. “How will I know you?”

“I’m tall, like a basketball player. I’m black. I’ll be in an old green army coat.”

“All right,” Hicks said. “In an hour?”

“I’ll be there.”

KNBC man-in-the-street interview, December 15, 1996, conducted at the gate to the Universal Studios tour “Earthbase 2500” attraction: Anchor: We’re asking people what they think about the President’s proclamation. Middle-aged Man (Laughs): I don’t know…I can’t make heads or tails, can you? (Cut away)

Anchor: Excuse me, we’re asking people what they think about the President’s statement that the Earth is going to be destroyed.

Young Woman: He’s crazy, and they should get him out of office. There aren’t any such things as what he’ s talking about.

Anchor: Standing here, in the shadow of a giant invading spacecraft, its weapons aimed at the crowd, how can you be so sure?

Young Woman: Because I’m educated, dammit. He’s crazy and he shouldn’t be in office.

Anchor (Moving on to an adolescent boy): Excuse me. What do you think of the President’ s statement that aliens have landed and are intent on destroying the Earth?

Adolescent Boy: It scares me.

Anchor: Is that all?

Adolescent Boy: Isn’t that enough?

41

What Arthur saw, in the bed, was already a ghost: thin wrinkled arms pale on the counterpane, face blotched, pale translucent green oxygen tube going to his nose, drugs seeping into his arm controlled by a small blue box with a flat-screen readout.

His oldest and dearest friend had become ancient, shrunken. Even Harry’s eyes were dull, and the grip of his hot hand was weak.

A curtain had been stretched between Harry’s bed and the room’s other occupant, a heart patient who slept all during Arthur’s visit.

Ithaca sat in a chair at Harry’s right, face tightly controlled but eyes rimmed in sleepless red, hair drawn into a bun. She wore a white blouse and skirt with a reddish-brown sweater. She would never wear black, Arthur knew; not even to Harry’s funeral.

“Glad you could come,” Harry said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper.

“I didn’t think it would be so soon,” Arthur said.

“Magic bullets missed their target.” He gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “Status report: I’d cash in, but who stole my bag of chips?”

Simply talking tired Harry now. He closed his eyes and let go of Arthur’s hand, withdrawing his slowly until it dropped to the sheet. “Tell me what’s going on in the real world. Any hope?”

Arthur spoke of the conference and the objects within the Earth.

Harry listened intently. “Ithaca reads from the newspapers…I’ve been watching TV,” he said when Arthur finished. “I finished my essay…about two days ago. Dictating. It’s on tape.” He pointed to a portable recorder on the nightstand. “Good thing, too. I can’t concentrate now. Too many…ups and downs. Sons of bitches. Can no more will them away…than I can make myself healthy, huh?”

“I guess not,” Arthur said.

“All the king’s men.” He drummed his fingers softly on the bed. “Anybody willing…to kill Captain Cook?”

Arthur smiled, his cheek twitching.

“Hope. Let’s hope.” Harry rolled his head to one side, facing a framed poster of sequoias to the left of the window. “The essay is for you alone. I don’t want it published. It’s not my best work. Use it…as you see fit.” He closed his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m dreaming or not. I wish I was dreaming now.”