We'll ride it out. We'll hope for the best, ride it out, and look to get lucky.

Boatmann couldn't get past the reality that if he were living in Miami, he'd want the truth. The notion that the president and his advisors were sitting on dangerous information, not sharing it with the people most at risk, had potentially appalling consequences. If things went the wrong way, that could be enough to bring the government down.

Boatmann's vision blurred. He divided the people in the mantel photographs into two groups: those who were safe, and those who were not. He had already warned some. Several, for one reason or another, he had not been able to find on short notice, and he was too discreet to leave messages on answering machines. But he'd try again today.

He stirred himself, got up, drew the curtain aside, and peered out into the morning. The sky was slate-colored and the air smelled of approaching rain. Wisconsin Avenue was unusually quiet.

His anguish was compounded by the knowledge that the president was right: A mass exodus from the coastal cities would cost lives. What were the odds that cometfall might indeed amount to nothing more than a few late-night meteor showers? There seemed to be no answer to that question. He had spent much of yesterday, after the cabinet meeting, on the Web and on the phone. Nobody knew.

But it seemed inherently dishonest to withhold what they really believed. No matter the motivation. The system only works when there is an honest compact between government and governed.

Easy to say. But how was he going to justify it to himself if he set off a panic?

His coffee had gotten cold. He poured another cup. After a while he reached for the phone.

3.

Moonbase, Grissom Country. 8:05 A.M.

The vice president's call had come late the previous night, with the suggestion that Rick prepare appropriate remarks for a televised news conference today. A good opening statement. We want to be upbeat, Charlie had said. We should probably admit the uncertainties of the situation. But we're in the hands of good old American technology. We and our foreign friends are going to come through, blah, blah, blah. The president wants us to focus attention on Moonbase problems. He's hoping we can divert the public's attention and stop them from jamming up the highways at home. His voice had taken a strange tone. Charlie rarely showed negative emotions about others, but he'd sounded irritated with Kolladner. While you're at it, prepare a list of likely questions I'll be asked. And recommended responses.

Not that you'll use any of them, Rick had thought.

Anyhow, Rick arrived at the vice president's door loaded with suggestions. Charlie's voice invited him in. He was sitting on the sofa, turning pages in a notebook. "Good morning, Rick," he said. "I have some ideas how this should sound."

"Are they that nervous at home?" Rick asked.

"I understand the situation's improving. But the Man is uncomfortable. And he has reason to be. You ever play poker with him?"

Rick hadn't. But he knew the president's reputation. Kolladner didn't play now, of course. There'd be no way to keep it from the media, and the public could be made to frown on a poker player in the White House. It would be the kind of thing the talk show hosts and the late-night comedians loved.

"He's always claimed," Charlie said, "that he never bluffs. It isn't true, of course. But it makes the bluff effective."

"He's bluffing now? About Saturday night?"

"Yeah, I think so. He's scared."

Rick nodded. "If the worst happens, he could lose both seaboards."

A muscle moved in Charlie's jaw, but he said nothing.

Rick, who had an elemental dislike for downbeat conversations, waved it away. "I made some notes on how I think we should handle the news conference."

"Good. It's scheduled for eight. Prime time, all networks and Weblinks. There'll be several guests, including some groundside scientists who think there's really nothing to worry about. They've even got one who swears the comet's going to miss. They're going to have Kendrick anchoring the thing. He'll ask a few questions. I'm sure you can imagine what they'll be. And we want soothing answers." He sat back and looked closely at Rick. "Henry wouldn't admit this, but if I'm reading correctly between the lines, I think the fix is in. I wonder if the president has heard more than he's admitting."

"It's the wrong move," said Rick.

"Why? What makes you say that?"

"It's just going to stir up the people who think there is a major problem. I guarantee you, within an hour after the telecast, every Ph.D. who disagrees will be holding a press conference of his own. Our best bet would be to say as little as possible, photograph the president going about routine business, and for God's sake make sure they get pictures of his wife and grandkids down on a Florida beach."

"It's too late for that now."

"I guess. You know, I hate to criticize a colleague, but the president needs a decent press secretary." Rick sighed. "I saw some reports from your home state. Everybody's clearing out. Headed west."

"I think I would, too," said Charlie.

"Yeah," said Rick. "Especially after we tell them tonight there's nothing to worry about."

• • • Percival Lowell Utility Deck. 8:14 A.M.

Rachel received the mission postponement order while her second shipment of passengers were coming aboard.

MARS FLIGHT CANCELED. NEW DATE NOT ESTABLISHED.

Lee Cochran was in back getting everyone settled. Rachel ran a copy, and when the bus had pulled away, she strolled back and showed it to him. He nodded, showing no emotion. "I wonder," he said, "if the mission will ever happen."

Lee's comment stuck in Rachel's mind while she stayed to help get everyone settled. It won't be that way, she thought. We have the instrument to break out into the solar system; and whatever happens here, we'll go.

We will go.

The passengers had been informed they'd be required to wear a breathing apparatus, but they looked askance at the devices anyhow. Several wanted assurances there were enough oxygen tanks to take care of everyone. Rachel thought how odd it was that people thought nothing of boarding a ferry or a moonbus without asking whether the life support system was adequate. But here, of course, they were holding the life support system in their hands and it worried them. There were other questions. How would they eat? In shifts. What if the mask came off while they slept? Don't worry, if we develop a problem you won't sleep through it. But in any case, we'll check on you regularly. When I have to change tanks, do I have to hold my breath until we get another one? It's a three-second changeover. You'll be fine. Why don't I get an oxygen mask? Everybody doesn't need one because there's enough air in the cabin to support eight people and then some. We'll take turns, Rachel explained, and everybody will get some time out of the mask.

They had a passenger list in advance and they assigned the older travelers to the astronaut quarters. Several families were with the group, four officials from various governments, one Russian industrialist, and two NASA heavyweights. Rachel knew both of course, and one, the comptroller, told her wryly that he was glad to see they'd found some use anyhow for Lowell.

Lee was acting as flight host. He'd collected a dozen viewers from L1 and had jacks installed throughout the ship so their riders could tap into the onboard library. He showed everyone where the galley and washrooms were located, and which buttons to punch if they needed help. He demonstrated the restraint systems in the various seats, and gave webbing to those who did not have seats. He stayed with them, helping them tie down, until he was satisfied they were safe.