TRANSGLOBAL SPECIAL REPORT. 1:31 P.M.

"This is Frances Picarno in Rome, reporting from outside the Vatican. It's early evening here, Bruce, and a huge crowd has gathered at St. Peter's to pray. The pope is expected to appear momentarily at his third-floor balcony."

"Frances, what's the mood there?"

"Somber. They're very quiet. I could almost say frightened. But these are believers, and they feel very much in the hands of their Creator tonight.

"Vatican officials have told us that Innocent will do what he can to reassure everyone. This couldn't have come at a worse time for the pontiff, as we all know. He has been in failing health for the past year, and his doctors have apparently advised against his appearance here this evening. But this pope, the People's Pope, is said to be quite concerned, and-wait a minute, Bruce. There he is now…"

2.

Moonbase, Grissom Country. 1:32 P.M.

Haskell was just returning to his quarters when his cell phone jingled.

"Charlie?" Evelyn's voice. "I'm glad you're there. I thought I was going to get the recorder again."

"I was out touring the facility, Evelyn. Seemed like the right time. What's going on?"

"Some good news. We might have a chance to get out of here."

"Wonderful. I knew somebody'd come up with something."

"The chances probably aren't very good."

"What's the plan?"

"One of the buses is going to come back for us tonight. Take us off. But it's strictly last-minute stuff."

"Anything's better than just sitting here. Tell the pilot I said thanks." He felt weak with relief. Moonbase Spaceport. 1:35 P.M.

Bigfoot had struggled with his conscience since the incident with the valves. It was he, after all, who had checked the fuel lines when Tony first reported a suspected leak. He'd found nothing, because he'd taken Tony at his word and looked for a leak and nothing else. In his own defense, he thought, finding the improper valve would not have been simply a matter of opening the manifold and looking. Both sizes of valves were identical in external appearance. He would have had to remove each unit and inspect it. And, of course, they'd been under extreme time pressure.

But now, despite the fact that he'd put himself at risk (or maybe because of it), he was feeling good again. Maybe they could pull it off.

It didn't occur to him that he wasn't the only person carrying a burden of guilt. Elias Tobin, the engineer who'd installed the wrong valve, left a note saying he was sorry, and took an overdose of tranquilizers. He survived because a worried friend came by to check on him. Later Elias asked to stay with the Chandler group, but Jack refused the offer when a therapist gave his opinion that Tobin was incapable of making a rational decision.

They'd put him on a moonbus at about the time Evelyn was talking to the vice president. Moonbase, Director's Office. 1:57 P.M.

Chandler looked across the desk at Angela Hawkworth. "We've got another volunteer," he said. "So you're off the hook. You'll be on a flight later this afternoon. See Susan about the details."

She avoided his gaze. "Jack," she said, "I'm sorry-"

"It's okay." She was the last of the people Evelyn had dragooned.

"I was willing to stay. You know that."

"I know."

She rose, anxious to be away before something changed. "Who is it?"

"Caparatti. We're going to put everybody in a bus and make a run for it. They need Caparatti to take care of the details, so he's staying on."

She nodded and started to back away. "I'd have stayed."

"It's okay, Angela. Everyone knows that." Carlisle, Pennsylvania. 2:15 P.M.

Claire eased the truck under a line of elms and parked outside a restored turn-of-the-century country home. It had broad lawns and a driveway that curved around the house. The air was colder here than it had been in South Jersey, and smoke was coming out of the chimney. There was a backboard mounted over the garage door and a swing set was just visible in back.

Archie climbed down, feeling stiff and unclean and not really presentable. But the occupants were already at the front door: a middle-aged woman and someone else, an older man, behind her. Walter's lodge buddies, who were opening their home to two of Walter's employees.

The woman came out, studied them for a few moments, and started in their direction. Archie raised his hand in greeting. "Hello," he said.

She didn't look particularly well. There was a fragility of both mind and body about her, an impression of a woman made of broken glass. "Archie?" She held out her hand. "My name's Mariel Esterhazy. I'm glad you were able to get here all right."

Archie had left a message on their answering machine to explain the delay. "Nice to meet you, Mariel," he said. He introduced Claire.

"My husband's at work," Mariel said. "But if you bring your luggage up to the house, we'll try to get you settled."

The man who'd stood with her in the doorway came out onto the deck. He was short, with an expression and posture that would have looked good on a Rottweiler. He wore thick glasses, a blue blazer, and loafers.

"We've been watching the reports all morning," Mariel said. "This Moon thing certainly has people stirred up. Isn't that right, Scott?" She waved impatiently at the man to help Claire with her bag.

Scott, it turned out, was her father-in-law. He allowed Claire to come to him before taking the bag from her. Archie saw that he did not entirely approve of his guests. "Several of your trucks have arrived in town," he said, making only minimal effort to hide his distaste. "How many are there altogether?"

"Eighteen."

"I think we can account for about half of them." He managed to look inconvenienced, hefted Claire's bag, and hauled it inside the door.

Mariel showed them to their rooms and invited them to come back downstairs when they were ready. Archie's room was far nicer than anything that had ever been put at his disposal before. It contained an ornately carved queen-size bed, a thick blue carpet, antique furniture, lush drapes the color of lemons, and a spacious walk-in closet. An original landscape dominated one of the walls. Photos of laughing children were displayed atop the bureau and on a side table, and several leather-bound books were stacked on a shelf at the head of the bed.

He washed, changed, and went back down to the living room, where Mariel and Scott were conversing in low tones. Mariel balanced a cup of coffee on her knee. Scott had a mixed drink.

"This whole comet situation has gotten completely out of hand," Mariel said. "People have no sense of perspective anymore." She shook her head, mourning the loss. "Can I get you something to drink, Archie?"

Scott agreed. "But it's got nothing to do with the comet," he added.

Archie asked for chablis. He wondered about Scott's comment. "In what way, sir?" he asked.

"The comet's going to hit the Moon, for God's sake, Archie. I don't care how you cut it, that just isn't a big deal. Listen, the truth is that the country's taking another step toward a collective nervous breakdown. In my profession, we've seen it coming for years."

"And what is your profession, Scott?"

"Same as my son's. I'm a securities dealer. Retired." He made it sound like fleet admiral, retired. "Everybody knows these are scary times. Terrorists with nuclear weapons, rebels everywhere, international corporations with no loyalty to any flag so you never know where they stand. Everybody's scared to death of technology. The country has no faith in God anymore. The government's just a pack of bureaucrats and politicians getting theirs while they can, the churches are dying, and the crazies don't know what to get into. Anything at all happens, it's a conspiracy. This's an age when you need a good account executive."