The young woman came around to each of them and held out her hand. “Jewelry, please,” she said. “Rings, watches, necklaces. Everything.” Everybody handed over the valuables without complaint. Arthur removed his wedding band and nodded for Francine to do likewise. Marty surrendered his Raccoon wristwatch without complaining. He was very sober and very quiet.

“Do you know where we’re going?” a young man dressed in a business suit asked the woman as he handed her a gold Rolex.

“Out near Alcatraz,” she said. “That’s what the skipper tells me.”

“I mean, after that?”

She shook her head. “Has everybody turned in everything?”

“Will we get our things back?” a small Asiatic woman asked.

“No,” the young woman in jeans replied. “Sorry.”

“Is Becky and Aunt Danielle and Uncle Grant coming with us?” Marty asked solemnly, watching sea gulls glide over the boat’s wake.

“No,” Francine answered, taking the word from Arthur’s lips. “Nobody else is coming with us.”

“Are we going to leave the Earth?” Marty asked. The adults around him visibly cringed.

“Shhh,” the young woman said, maneuvering her way past him. “Wait and see.”

Arthur reached out and gently pinched Marty’s ear between thumb and forefinger. Smart boy, he thought. He looked out across the water, feeling the bay’s white-caps thump rhythmically against the boat hull. Several people were becoming seasick. A nut-brown, gray-bearded man of about forty came down from the pilot house and passed out plastic bags. “Use them,” he said gruffly. “Everybody. We don’t need anybody sicker than they have to be, and we certainly don’t need chain reactions.”

Arthur surveyed the city’s skyline, blinking at the salt spray. All that work. Around the world. Thousands of years. He could not even begin to encompass the enormity. Francine came to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He leaned his cheek against her hair, not daring to feel as optimistic as he wanted to be.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” she asked.

Marty snuggled up to them. “We’re going away, Mom,” he said.

“Are we?” she asked Arthur.

He swallowed and barely moved his head, then nodded. “Yes. I think we are.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

They cut through the water under the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island and Treasure Island to their right, tall mounds of dark green and brown on the slate-colored, white-flecked waters.

“See, Marty?” Francine said, pointing up at the bridge’s maze of girders and the huge piers and tower legs. “We drove over that just a while ago.”

Marty gave the wonder cursory attention. The sea was getting rougher. Alcatraz, a desolate rock cluttered with ancient buildings, a water tower prominent, lay dead ahead. The boat slowed, its motors cutting back to a steady chug-chug-chug. The young woman passed among them again, examining everybody closely for unnecessary belongings. Nobody protested; they were either numb with fear, seasick, exhausted, or all three. She smiled at Marty in passing to the rear again.

The boat stopped, drifting in the chop. The passengers began to murmur. Then Arthur saw something square and gray rise beyond the port gunwale. He thought immediately of a submarine sail, but it was much smaller, barely as wide as a double doorway and no more than ten feet out of the water.

“We’ll have to be careful,” the woman told them, standing on a short ladder near the pilot house. “The water’s rough. We’re all going to climb down through this doorway.” An empty black square appeared in the gray block. “There’s a spiral staircase going down into the ship. The ark. If you have a child younger than twelve, please hold its hand and be very careful.”

A burly fisherman in a black turtleneck sweater struggled to extend a short gangplank to the block’s entrance.

“We are leaving,” Francine said, her voice like a girl’s.

One by one, in silence, they crossed the none-too-stable plank, helped by the fisherman and the young woman. Each person vanished into the block. When his family’s turn came, Arthur went first, then helped Francine lift Marty across, and grasped her hand firmly as she lurched over.

“Oh, Lord,” Francine said in a trembling voice as they descended the steep, narrow spiral staircase.

“Be brave, Mom,” Marty encouraged. He smiled at Arthur, walking before him, their heads almost level.

After descending some thirty feet, they stepped through a half-oval entrance into a circular room with three doorways clustered on the opposite side. The walls were peach yellow and the lighting was even and warm, soothing. When all twenty stood in the room, the young woman joined them. The fisherman and other crew members did not. The half-oval hatch slid shut quietly behind her. A low moan rose from several in the room, and one man about ten years younger than Arthur sank to his knees, hands clasped in prayer.

“We’re inside a spaceship,” the young woman said. “We have quarters farther down. In a little while, maybe a couple of hours, we’ll be leaving the Earth. Some of you know this already. The rest of you should be patient, and please don’t be afraid.”

Arthur clasped his wife’s and son’s hands and closed his eyes, not knowing whether he was terrified, or exalted, or already in mourning. If they were aboard a spaceship, and all the work he and the others in the network had done was coming to fruition, then the Earth would soon die.

His family might survive. Yet they would never again breathe the fresh cold sea air or stand in the open beneath the sun. Faces passed before him, behind his eyelids: relatives, friends, colleagues. Harry, when he had been healthy. Arthur thought of Ithaca Feinman and wondered whether she would be aboard an ark. Probably not. There were so few spaces available, fewer still now that the ships in Charleston and Seattle had been destroyed. A breeding population, little more.

And all the rest…

The younger man prayed out loud, fervent, face screwed up in an agony of concentration. Arthur could very easily have joined him.

67

A loose group of ten took to the Four Mile Trail in the early morning, Edward and Betsy among them. They hiked through the shadows of Douglas fir and Ponderosa pine, pine pitch tartly scenting the still morning air. The climb was relatively mild at first, rising gradually to the vigorous Sentinel Creek ford some two hundred feet above the valley floor.

By eleven they were on the steep ascending trail cut into the granite facade to the west of Sentinel Rock.

Edward paused to sit and take a breather, and to admire Betsy in her climbing shorts.

“They used to charge to climb this,”’ Betsy said, propping one well-made leg against a ledge to retie her hiking boot.

He looked over the edge at the distance they had already climbed and shook his head. By noon, they had peeled out of their sweatshirts and tied the sleeves around their hips. They stopped for a water break. The ten, by now, were spread along a half mile of the trail like goats in a terraced-rock zoo exhibit. One young man a few dozen feet above Edward had enough energy to beat his chest and let loose a Tarzan cry of dominance. Then he grinned foolishly and waved.

“Me Jane, him nuts,” Betsy commented.

Their good cheer continued as they stood at Union Point and looked down across the valley, leaning on the iron railings. The sky was only slightly smoky, and the air was warming as they ascended. “We could stop here,” Betsy suggested. “The view’s pretty good.”

“Onward.” Edward put on a valiant face and pointed to the goal. “One more heavy climb.”

By one o’clock they had hiked over a seemingly endless series of switchbacks up the bare granite slope, stopping briefly to examine the manzanita growth. They then followed a much more reasonable, comparatively level trail to Glacier Point.