Marv.

If something were to happen to her, she wondered whether he wouldn't miss her more than her husband would.

There was a commotion inside, and the news was quickly passed to the people on the terrace. They were recommending evacuation of New York.

She looked out at the Natural History Museum, its congeries of dull brick buildings spread across several blocks.

Below, along 77th, people were blowing their horns.

"This is Bruce Kendrick in our Syracuse studios. We have more information now on the events at Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where Angela Shepard is standing by. Angela, what's the situation?"

"Bruce, early estimates are that hundreds died here when at least seven objects struck the ground in and around Carlisle at a little after eleven o'clock this evening. One demolished the center of town, which is now, as you can see, little more than a smoking crater. The town itself has been destroyed. An estimated three thousand victims are being evacuated to area hospitals.

"The Red Cross is setting up an emergency shelter, and the number that's running across the bottom of the screen can be used to get information about relatives. The military responded within minutes and is out in force.

"We're panning the area for you now, and you can see there are fires everywhere. The devastation is unlike anything you'd expect to see in peacetime. Everything's down, power's out, water's out. When we got here, people were wandering the streets, trying to help where they could. One man told us that the meteors just kept coming. Every couple of minutes, he said, another one would fall out of the sky.

"We have a video of one of them. Or we will have in just a moment. It was shot from a passing car in the northern part of town. Okay, there it is. You can see it coming in over the telephone lines. He loses it for a moment here. But there it is again. It looks as if it's approaching at about a forty-five-degree angle. This appears to be the one that hit the center of Carlisle, Bruce."

"Angela, let me break in for a moment. We've just been informed that the president will address the nation in twenty minutes, at eleven-forty-five. This has to be the shortest notice for a presidential address in U.S. history.

"We've also received reports that waves have struck Caracas and Trinidad. Everything so far has been in the Western Hemisphere. I assume that's because this is the part of the Earth that's turned toward the Moon tonight.

"We'll be staying at the Transglobal news desk throughout the night with this developing story. We hope you'll stay with us. Now, while we're waiting for the president's statement, we're going to switch to Charleston, South Carolina, where Peter Barton is standing by…"

Coast Guard Activities, Governors Island, New York. 11:44 P.M.

Captain Lionel Phillips looked up from his desk. The duty officer had burst into his office with a single sheet of paper. "Tidal wave, sir," she said. "Coming this way."

He snatched the paper.

He looked at it, felt his stomach go cold, and pushed the button. The klaxon began to wail. Everybody out. He'd not believed for a minute any of this sky-is-falling bullcrap, and consequently he'd encouraged his wife to ignore the threat. She was at this moment sitting with their five-year-old grandson in a pleasant Tudor home on Hylan Boulevard off Hugenot Park on nearby Staten Island. Roughly ten feet above sea level.

The wave was four, maybe five, minutes away.

But thank God he'd been directed to assume the worst here and make preparations. "Janet," he said to the officer, "have we sent the general alert?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Let's go." He got out of his chair, headed for the door, and grabbed his jacket on the way past the clothes tree. "Everybody out," he said unnecessarily to the four others scrambling to shut down the center. "Go to mobile."

He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, punched his home key, and listened to it ring. His own voice clicked on: "You've reached Captain Phillips's residence. Speak if you wish." And the beep.

"Myra," he told it, "for God's sake get out. Wave coming."

Then he was half walking, half running, locking doors as regulations required, listening to the thwip-thwip-thwip of rotors. His people were all out now, scattering across the tarmac and climbing into the chopper. Except Janet, who was drifting behind, keeping pace with him. Damned women. "Go," he told her. She climbed aboard and he followed and the chopper lifted off.

Phillips looked east over the lights of Brooklyn toward the harbor entrance. Everything seemed normal. They activated Bluebell, the Coast Guard Command Center Aloft. One of the radio operators signaled for his attention. "Captain," he said, "we've got reports from a couple of merchantmen, too. They're saying more like sixty feet."

God help us. He directed the pilot to move south. At the same time, he tried to call home again. Still no luck.

It was on the radio now, all stations warning people to get to high ground.

Phillips was trying not to give in to panic. "Janet," he said, "get me Collins." The FEMA regional director.

Collins already knew, of course. "Doing everything we can," he said. The FEMA director had been another skeptic. "Maybe we'll get lucky," he added. That sounded ominous.

They talked for a minute, and then Phillips tried again to call Myra. This time she answered.

"Whoa, Phil," she said, "slow down."

He was gazing across the bay from about a thousand feet. Lights were moving down there. Two miles ahead, at the Narrows, he could see the Verrazano Bridge.

"Myra, there's a wave coming. Big one. Get out of there. Get on the interstate and head west."

"How big?"

"Big."

"How much time do I have?"

"None-"

The phone went dead. He tried to call her back, but got a recorded message from the telephone company telling him the line was under repair.

Janet stared at him and said nothing.

He was trying to get the operator to check the line when the lights on the bridge blinked off.