Luke wondered whether there'd be anyone down at the lodge, which was where he usually spent his Saturday evenings.

He tasted the cherry pie. In the old days, he and Ann had made a ritual out of the late-night snack, often carrying it out onto the porch and munching away while the tide rolled in. Now, instead of Ann, he had a computer display.

It was set on a shelf overlooking the kitchen table. He aimed the remote and clicked it and the Time logo filled the screen, then faded to an image of the comet. The comet was overlaid by the vice president's picture. It carried the legend:

WILL WE LOSE HIM?

Luke liked Charlie Haskell. Like most Americans, he instinctively distrusted politicians, but he thought Haskell might be an exception. Luke's friends laughed when he said that. No such thing as an honest politician, they maintained.

But he'd decided that, if Haskell got the nomination, he'd vote for him. Luke didn't have the energy to try to sort out the issues. Both sides seemed reasonable when they presented their arguments for reducing the debt or handling the influx of immigrants or dealing with nanotech. Hell,

Luke didn't really understand what nanotech was. So his philosophy was to do the next best thing: find a candidate who seemed honest and put him in charge and hope for the best. His son Christopher liked to say that the country wasn't governable anyhow. Problems were too big, too intractable. The nation was too deep in debt. The borders were a joke. Every now and then some terrorist group took out a thousand people with nerve gas. Meantime, everybody who was out of power leveled all kinds of personal attacks against the people who were in power. Maybe Chris was right. Maybe even Andy Culpepper couldn't have dealt with things anymore.

Maybe the comet was a sign. Skyport Terminal. 9:12 P.M.

Tory Clark's flight left without her. It carried two hundred twenty-two passengers and a crew of fifteen. Prior to departure her phone bleeped for several minutes. She ignored it. SSTO Arlington Flight Deck. 9:25 P.M.

Their window was coming up. George watched anxiously while the last of the moonbuses arced in to dock.

They were down to four minutes before he had to lift out of orbit. Or forget about getting clear.

He listened to the rattle of conversation between Mary and the bus pilot, which seemed to go on interminably. Finally he broke in with a sharp warning and she acknowledged. He debated whether the clamps would hold if he tried to accelerate out while the bus was still attached. It wasn't something he wanted to try.

Listening over Mary's cell phone, he heard the inner hatch open, heard voices, gotta move, hurry up now, let's go let's go.

The comet was as big as the Earth, visibly inching forward. "Let me know as soon as they're aboard, Mary."

There were nineteen people on this one, including the two bus pilots. Full load.

He could hear Mary's voice counting heads as they came through. Fourteen, fifteen…

"We're down to two minutes, babe. Hurry it along." He switched to the public address system and warned the passengers to buckle in. "Departure is imminent," he said.

"Arlington." One of the moonbus pilots this time.

"Go ahead."

"Not set up yet for auto."

The plan was to let the autopilot ease the moonbus clear of the SSTO, which didn't have much flexibility for maneuver. "Forget it and get over here," said George. "Or we're leaving without you." He leaned back and looked at Curt. The port wing might clip the bus on the way out.

"I'll have a solution in a minute," Curt said. He worked over his console.

The comet was sinking. Not good.

"Nineteen," said Mary. "All accounted for."

"Get everybody buckled in. And stand by to jettison the bus."

She repeated the order and waited.

Curt's numbers flowed across George's display. "Ready to go," the flight engineer said.

"Cut it loose," said George. His control board winked.

"Bus away."

George applied Curt's solution and the SSTO wheeled to starboard and began to climb.

"Bus clear," said Curt. "Return to base course. Go for the window."

George went to full thrust and the space plane rose swiftly out of orbit.

• • • Micro. 9:26 P.M.

Tony and Saber, descending toward Alphonsus, overheard most of the conversation between Arlington and the bus. Saber thought she saw a brief flicker of light against the velvet sky, a flicker that might have been Arlington starting for home.

They were now alone with the monster.

6.

Moonbase, Director's Dining Room. 9:27 P.M.

It was winding down. Jack Chandler felt a wave of regret when Bigfoot, after glancing several times at his watch, excused himself, explaining that he really shouldn't be here, that he should be at his station in case something went wrong.

What could go wrong? Chandler asked, but did not listen to the answer.

"We should probably all go," said Evelyn a moment later. "This isn't a good time to be late."

The others nodded, glanced at their watches, drained their glasses.

"Good luck," said Haskell, so low that the words were barely discernible.

Morley looked at the vice president and pointed to his throat mike. Haskell glanced at Evelyn, who shrugged. The vice president nodded and Morley withdrew to the far end of the room, took his microcam from his pocket and set it on the table. He aimed it at himself and began to speak into the mike. Chandler couldn't make out what he was saying.

The chaplain looked over at him and smiled encouragement. We're going to be okay, Jack.

"I know," said Chandler aloud.

He hadn't yet made up his mind what he was going to do. Or maybe he had, in some inner recess where no light lived.

And maybe that was why his heart pounded so fiercely, he thought the others must hear it.

"You okay, Jack?" asked Haskell. He was frowning.

"I'm fine. It's an emotional moment," he admitted.

They filed from the dining room into the adjoining passage, took the elevator, descended to ground level, and emerged through the front doors. It was, of course, night in Main Plaza. Post lamps provided pools of light, illuminating benches and shop fronts and walkways. It was a scene of almost painful tranquillity.

Chandler paused near an azalea bush. "Something I forgot," he told Evelyn. "Family pictures. I'll meet you at the Spaceport."

"Okay," she said. "But hurry it along, Jack."

He nodded.

"Want company?"

"No, no. You go with the others. I'll be right over." He felt his face growing warm.

She looked at him for a long moment. The others were walking toward the tram station. Their leisurely demeanor had been replaced by something more precipitate. "Make it quick, Jack. Okay?"

He nodded, turned away, and descended the ramp to level three, where he walked back to his quarters in McNair Country, an area reserved for Moonbase managers.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors. He seemed preternaturally aware of the texture of the walls and the geometry of the passageways. There was a sense the place was alive, as if everything that had ever happened here had somehow been captured and stored.

He found his room, inserted his keycard, and opened up. When he'd left it to go to the dinner, he hadn't known whether he would return or not. Even now he wasn't sure about his intentions. But he was sure he did not want to go back groundside, back to the crushing weight in his chest, back to the constant fear he took to bed every night that he would not wake up in the morning.