A third wave was beginning. All around the equator, a new necklace of dazzling blue specks was expanding away from the Earth’s surface. The planet was girdled by a multicolored confusion of spiralling points of light.

“For God’s sake.” Wolfgang dropped any pretence of nonchalance. “Just how many of these are there? I’ve counted over forty, and I’ve not even been trying to track the ones launched in the American hemisphere.”

“Two hundred and six spacecraft, all shapes and sizes, and most of them not designed for the sort of docking ports we have available here. The count for launches shows on that readout over there.” Hans waved a hand at a display, but his attention was all on the screen.

“It’s going to be a nightmare,” he said cheerfully. “We have to match them all up when they get here. Matter of fact, we won’t even try to bring all of them all the way. Lots of ‘em will stay in low orbit, and we’ll send the tugs down to transfer cargo. I didn’t have time to worry about extra thrust to bring them up here. We had enough trouble getting some of that junk into orbit at all.” A fourth wave had begun. But now the screen was too confusing to follow. The points of light were converging, and the limited resolution of the display screen made many appear close to collision, even though miles of space separated them. The two men seemed hypnotized, staring at the bright carousel of orbiting ships. Charlene went to the viewport and looked directly down toward Earth. There was nothing to be seen. The ships were far too small to show against the giant crescent of the planet. She shook her head, and turned to face the launch count readout. The total was ticking higher, skipping ahead in little bursts as orbital velocity was confirmed for the ships in a new group.

Hans had moved back from the control console, and the three stood side by side, motionless. The room remained totally silent for several minutes except for the soft beep of the counters.

“Nearly there,” said Charlene at last. She was still watching the ship count. “Two hundred and three. Four. Five. One more to go. There. Two hundred and six. Should we be applauding?”

She smiled at Wolfgang, who absentmindedly squeezed her hand. Then she turned back to the counter. She stared at it for a few seconds, not sure what she was seeing.

“Hey! Hans, I thought you said the total was two hundred and six? The readout shows two hundred and fourteen and it’s still going.”

“What!” Hans swivelled his head to look, the rest of his body turning the other way to give low-gee compensation for the movement. “It can’t be. I scrounged every ship that would fly. There’s no way…”

His voice faded. On the screen, a fountain of bright points of light was spouting upward. It centered on an area of southeast Asia. As they watched, a speaker by the console stuttered and burst to life.

“Hans! Full alert.” The voice was harsh and strained, but Wolfgang recognized the note of authority. It was Salter Wherry. “Bring up our defense systems. Monitors show launch of missiles from west China. No trajectory information yet. Could be headed for America or western Russia or South America, some could be coming our way. Too soon to tell. I’ve thrown the switch here. You confirm action stations. I’ll be in central control in one minute.”

In spite of its tone of agonized strain, the voice had made its staccato statements so fast that the sentences ran into one stream of orders. Hans Gibbs did not even attempt a reply. He was off his seat and over to another console instantly. A plastic seal was removed and the lever behind it pulled out before Wolfgang or Charlene could move.

“What’s happening?” cried Charlene.

“Don’t know.” Hans sounded as though he were choking. “But look at the screen — and the count. Those have to be missile launches. We can’t afford to take a chance on where they’re heading.”

The readout was going insane, digits flickering too fast to read. The launch count was up over four hundred. As it escalated higher, Salter Wherry came stumbling into the control room.

It was his arrival, in person, that made Charlene aware of the real seriousness of the situation. Here was a man who rarely met with anyone, who prized his privacy above any wealth, who hated exposure to strangers. And he was there in the control room, oblivious to the presence of Charlene and Wolfgang. She stared at him curiously. Was this the living legend, the master architect of Solar System development? She knew he was very old. But he looked more than old. His face was white and haggard, like a stretched-out death mask, and his thin hands were trembling.

“The fools,” he said softly. His voice was a croaking whisper. “Oh, the fools, the damned, damned, damned fools. I’ve been afraid of this, but I didn’t really believe it would ever happen in my lifetime. Do you have our defenses up?” “In position,” said Hans harshly. “We’re protected. But what about the ships that are on their way here? They’ll be blown apart if they’re on a rendezvous trajectory with us.”

Charlene stared at him mindlessly for a second. Then she understood. “The ships! My God, the whole Institute staff is on its way up here. You can’t use your missile defense on them — you can’t do it!”

Wherry glared at her, seeming to notice the strangers in the control room for the first time. “Even the fastest of our ships won’t be here for an hour,” he said.

He sank to a chair, his breath wheezing in his throat. He coughed and leaned back. His skin looked dry and white, like crumbling dough. “By then it will all be over, one way or another. The attack missiles have high accelerations. If they’re aimed at us, they’ll be here in twenty minutes. If they’re not, it will be over anyway. Hans, flag our position on the display.”

Under Hans Gibbs’ keyboard control, the position of Salter Station appeared on the screen as a glowing white circle. Hans studied the whole display for a few moments, head cocked to one side. “I don’t think they’re coming this way. For a guess, they’re heading for western Russia and the United States. What’s happening?”

Wherry was sitting, head down. “Don’t know. See what you can catch on radio communications.” He cleared his throat, the breath wheezing in his larynx. “We’ve always been worried that somebody would try a sneak first strike, wipe out the others’ retaliatory power. That’s what we’re seeing. Some madman took advantage of the high level of our launch activity — so much going on, it would take anyone a while to realize an attack was being made.” Hans had cut in a radio frequency scan. “Radio silence from China. Look at the screen. Those will be United States’ missiles. The counterattack. We knew a preemptive first strike wouldn’t work. It didn’t.”

A dense cluster of points of fire was sweeping up over the north pole. At the same time, a new starburst was rising from eastern Siberia. The launch readout had gone insane, emitting a series of high-pitched squeaks as individual launches became too frequent to be marked by a separate beep from the counter. Over two thousand missile launches had been recorded in less than three minutes. “Couldn’t work. Couldn’t ever work,” said Salter Wherry softly. “First strike never would — always leaves something to hit back.”

His head slumped down. For the first time, Charlene had the thought that she might be seeing something more than old age and worry. “Wolfgang! Give me some help here.”

She moved to Wherry’s side and placed her hand under his chin, lifting his head. His eyes were bleary, as though some translucent film covered them. At her touch he feebly raised his right hand to grip hers. It was icy cold, and his other hand clutched at his chest.

“Couldn’t work. Couldn’t.” The voice was a rough whisper. “It’s the end. End of the world, end of everything.”

“He’s having a heart attack.” Charlene leaned over to lift him, but Wolfgang was there before her.