”Something!” Sand asked softly. “What, machines? Where?”

“There don’t appear to be bubbles above the ocean plains. Only in the trenches, and here and here, in known fracture zones.” He scrolled back. “Wherever there are deep cracks in the crust, something is storing up hydrogen and releasing oxygen.”

Sand made a clench-jawed tsk-tsk. “Kemp says oxygen is up by another percentage point in the Pacific region, and half a percent in central Eurasia.”

“Approaching dangerous concentrations,” Samshow said. “We’re going to see conflagrations…forests, cities.”

“I’ve already given up smoking, thank God,” Sand said.

Edward Shaw sat in a comfortable antique chair in the bar of the Stephen Austin Hotel — alone, with a whiskey sour in one hand and a fistful of Smokehouse almonds in the other. He had returned to Austin to straighten out his affairs, as might a man condemned to death by lingering illness. He found himself unable to cope with ordinary life any longer.

Austin and environs had been his final effort to get in touch with the past and attempt at least a symbolic reconciliation. His last girlfriend — almost a fiancée — had married a bank vice-president and wanted nothing to do with him. The university had taken his departure philosophically.

He had even broken free of Reslaw and Minelli in Arizona, though Minelli had promised to meet him in Yosemite in late March, weather allowing. He did not want his malaise to burden them. Reslaw, lightly bearded, hair cut to a thin shag, told them he was going to Maine to live with his half brother.

Edward had come back to his hometown to discover that his two-bedroom apartment had been emptied and rented to another tenant the month before — having been forgotten by the government agents looking after his affairs during his quarantine. That seemed a rather major oversight. At least the landlady had been kind enough to store his belongings in the event of his return. He had sold the furniture, but — to his own amusement — learned he still had a few things he couldn’t bear to part with. These he had stored in a rental shed at the exorbitant rate of one hundred dollars a month, paid in advance for five months.

These things done, Edward became what he wanted to be, footloose and fancy free.

He had few doubts that the Earth would soon come to an end. He had bought a small-caliber pistol in case that end might prove too painful. (Pistols were at a premium now.) He had apportioned his savings and the government money to allow him a full five months of travel.

He had no urge to step outside the boundaries of the United States. Purchasing a small motor home (trading in his Land Cruiser) had depleted his assets by about a third. Now, for his final day in Austin, he was spending the night in the hotel, wrapped in a peculiarly enervated melancholy.

He was anxious to get moving.

He would travel around the country, and in late March or April he would end up in Yosemite, where he would settle in. The first part of his journey would give him a great overview of North America, as much as he could cover — something he had always wanted to do. He would spend a few weeks in the White River Badlands of South Dakota, a few days in Zion National Park, and so on, hitting the geological highlights until by full circle he came back to his childhood and the high rocky walls of Yosemite. Having surveyed some of what he wanted to see of the Earth, he would then begin to catalog his interior country.

Good plans.

Then why did he feel so miserable?

He could not shake free of the notion that one spent one’s life with a treasured friend or loved one. Edward had always been essentially a loner. He felt no need to see his mother; she had kicked him out of the house at sixteen, and he had lost touch with her years ago. But there was still the myth, the image of the dyadic cyclone, as John Lilly had called it…the pair, facing life together.

He finished the whiskey sour and left the bar, brushing salt dust from his hand with the screwing motion of a bunched-up napkin. The doorman nodded cordially at him and he nodded back. Then he went for a two-hour walk around downtown Austin, something he had not done since he had been a student.

It was Sunday and the town was quiet. He wandered past white picket fences and black iron fences surrounding old well-kept historic houses. He studied bronze historical plaques mounted on pillars. Leaving the older neighborhoods, he finally stood in the center of concrete and stone and steel and glass pillars, the balmy midwinter Texas breeze rippling his short-sleeved shirt.

A human city, yet very solid and substantial-looking.

How could it just go away?

Not even geology encompassed the instant demise of worlds.

The next morning, having slept soundly enough and with no memorable dreams, Edward Shaw began his new life.

45

Lieutenant Colonel Rogers sat in his trailer, waiting for word from the civilian liaison, a small, dapper saintly faced NSA man named Tucker. Tucker had but one role in this conspiracy — there was no other word for it — and that was to convey whether or not the weapon had been acquired.

The Sunday New York Times lay spread across a desk below three blank television monitors. On the front page, three headlines of almost equal size vied for attention:

The whole world was going mad, and taking him along. In the past week, he had three times violated his oath as an officer. He was participating in a conspiracy that would ultimately subvert the expressed orders of the Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces. Within two weeks, sooner if all went as planned, he would attempt to destroy the very object the cultists surrounding the site wished to protect.

What disturbed him most of all was that he was not more disturbed. He hated to think of himself as a hardened radical, but he had indeed been radicalized, and he was no longer able to see and think of opposite courses of action. All he could see was a threat to his nation and a government in complete disarray. Extraordinary times, extraordinary measures.

The trailer phone rang. He answered and the command center operator told him he had an outside call from CINCPACFLEET — Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet.

Tucker’s voice came on the line. He was, more than likely, calling from the aircraft carrier Saratoga operating a hundred miles due west of San Clemente Island. He had, more than likely, just finished speaking with Admiral Louis Cameron.

“Colonel Rogers, we have an arrow and all the feathers we need.”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Your next contact will be Green.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up the phone. Green was Senator Julio Gilmonn, Democrat, California. Gilmonn was chairman of the Senate Alien Defense Subcommittee. He would ride in a big limousine through the cordon of cultists and onto the site in approximately ten days. He would be heavily guarded.

In the trunk of the limousine would be the “arrow,” a three-kiloton warhead originally designed for an anti-submarine missile aboard the Saratoga.

Carrying this warhead in a custom sling, Rogers would enter the bogey.

He folded the newspaper neatly and stood to make his afternoon rounds.