At Skyport they'd corrected the programming glitch. John Verrano rode his spacecraft into lunar orbit on a dime. He opened a channel. "Moonbase, this is Rome."

"Go ahead, Rome."

"Rome is on station and ready for business." Moonbase, Director's Office. 11:11 P.M.

It was, of course, the story of the age. Keith Morley of Transglobal was outraged when his link with the news desk was severed by the Moonbase commcenter. Jack Chandler had said yes, yes, he understood how Morley felt, but they couldn't give Morley an open channel because there just weren't enough circuits available.

"Circuits, hell!" Morley complained. "You're going to lose some people and you don't want me blowing the coverup."

"We're not certain yet we'll lose anybody."

Morley didn't care much for Chandler. He was the perfect bureaucrat, evasive, deskbound, a man who thought in terms of constraints and methodologies. From whom it was next to impossible to get a direct answer.

"What does that mean, Jack? Do you expect to lose some of your people?"

Chandler ran his hands through his thinning hair. "Yes," he said. "We do."

"Why are you sitting on it? Do you think it's going to change anything tomorrow night because you don't tell anybody?"

Chandler leaned forward, braced his elbows on his desk, and set his chin on his hands. "We're not sitting on anything, Keith." He glanced at his phone. "I'll call the commcenter and see that you get a link, if that's what you want."

"Of course it's what I want." He took a deep breath. "How many people are going to be killed?"

"Possibly none."

"Right. We've been through that. If you lose some, how many is it likely to be?"

"Six," he said.

Six. Well, it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Assuming the old bastard was telling the truth. "Names?" he asked. "Who's getting left?" He did not take out his notebook, of course. He'd been in the business too long and knew that you never, ever conducted an interview with a notebook or recorder.

Chandler rattled them off. Himself and Hampton. Hawkworth, Eckerd. Pinnacle."

"The chaplain?"

"He offered to stay."

Morley called up his image of Mark Pinnacle. "Did he say why?"

Chandler shook his head. "No. I didn't think to ask."

"Okay. That's five. Who else?"

"Charlie Haskell."

Morley did a double take. "You're not serious. He left this afternoon, didn't he?"

"No. He stayed off the flight."

"But he was directed out."

"He's still here."

Morley started for the door. "Can you arrange for me to talk to him?"

Chandler shook his head again. He was very good at saying no. "I've no control over his appointments, Keith."

Damn. Either this was legitimate and Haskell was really going to try to ride out the comet, or something was going on. Either way, it was a huge story. But Morley's throat caught when he thought about his options. Nevertheless, he needed only a moment to make up his mind. "Jack, I'd like to stay, too, if you don't object."

Chandler's eyes widened. "You don't mean that," he said.

All of Morley's instincts told him there was no way the vice president would hang in if there weren't a way out. Politicians don't do things like that.

And it was a hell of a story. Pulitzer, Morley was thinking. Maybe posthumous. But a Pulitzer.

Crandall: Hi, Jason from Coos Bay. First Caller: Hey, Frank. Cheers from the white beach capital. Crandall: Thanks, Jason. What's on your mind? First Caller: What's the straight stuff about the comet, Frank? The media always lie, and I keep hearing conflicting stories. I'm looking out my window now at the ocean. What's going to happen tomorrow night? Crandall: Don't know, my man. I don't think anybody knows for sure. First Caller: Should I get out? Crandall: That's your call, Jason. First Caller: What would you do? Crandall: Ol' Frank'll be on top of a mountain tomorrow." (Laughs) "Seriously, Jason, I'll be right here in Miami, doing my routine, and hoping for the best. I think the media have a tendency to be very careful what they report. Everybody has to look out these days, and I'll tell you why: There're lawsuits everywhere. So we're all supercautious…We have time for one more call before we go to commercial… Harry in St. Louis, hello. Second Caller: Hi, Frank. Say, I'd like to change the subject. Crandall: Go ahead. Talk about anything you want. Second Caller: I was wondering if you've noticed the Cardinals have started the season with six straight wins. Crandall: Yeah, they're loaded with pitching, and it looks like they've got a serious team out there this year… SSTO Berlin Flight Deck. 11:59 P.M.

Willem Stephan moved the throttle forward, and the spacecraft began to pick up velocity. He informed Moonbase that he was leaving orbit, and was relieved to watch the lunar surface begin to drop away. He'd been in orbit thirty-eight hours, and was starting back with 162 passengers. Not quite as many as he'd expected, but the incident with the Micro had slowed the operation down.

But Rome was in orbit now, and she would collect passengers during the night, until she was joined by the American plane early tomorrow morning.

Gruder looked at him. "I'm glad to be away," he said.

"Yes, old friend. As am I."

Saturday, April 13

White House. 1:15 A.M.

The president had been at a party at the Polish embassy when Haskell's message reached him: UNABLE COMPLY YOUR LAST. HAVE TO LOCK UP.

Henry read it several times. Damned fool.

The Iraqi ambassador, standing beside him, asked what was wrong.

"Nothing of significance, Oman," he said, sliding the paper into a pocket.

People had talked about Senator Butler's latest gaffe (calling the voters "morons" without realizing the mike was hot), the ongoing food fight between two of Washington's top journalists which had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with a fashion model, and the discovery that a respected late-night political commentator had been buying child pornography. But Henry could not stop thinking about his beleaguered vice president.

At around three, back at the White House, he called Kerr aside and showed him the news. "This is Hailey's idea," said Kerr. "They want more drama. They want you to go on TV and tell him to quit monkeying around and get on the plane."

"That's what I thought at first, Al. But he knows I can't do that. They've admitted they can't get everybody out and they're starting to release names of people who're staying behind. How will it look if I demand they send him back, and then we find out that a father with three kids had to stay instead? No. The damned fool had to get out before all this became public information. It's too late now." He shook his head. "You've got to admire him. I guess it's that goddam Teddy Roosevelt schtick." Ephrata, Pennsylvania. 1:50 A.M.

Claire was asleep in the cab of the Pine River Furniture truck. They'd stopped in the parking lot of the Old Rock Bank on Route 322. The rest of the convoy was God knew where because the phone system was overwhelmed and Archie couldn't patch through to anybody. Moreover, the truck's power cells had begun to weaken. Lines at the charge stations were a mile long, so they'd given up and pulled over to wait for morning. Weather permitting, the sun would recharge their cells.