Phytosphere

1

From his eighth-floor room in the Nectaris Buena Vista Hotel and Gambling Casino, Gerry Thorndike watched the shroud form over Earth. It moved with the slowness of a minute hand sweeping around a clock. He tried to view it as a scientist might, struggled to bring to bear his scientific education, training, and experience, but was hard-pressed to make any substantive observations about the Tarsalan-created phenomenon, knowing he was up here on the Moon, and his wife and children were still down there, on Earth.

He turned from the unsightly thing, angry that the aliens should resort to such an insidious measure, wondering why after nine years in orbit they should now suddenly decide to change their political approach to the immigration question. He checked his waferscreen notes. If the shroud’s current growth rate remained the same, it would reach North Carolina in less than a day. He thought of Glenda in their house on the outskirts of Raleigh; of his two children, Jake and Hanna; and of how he had been a fool to jeopardize everything he had ever valued with this questionable trip to Nectaris.

He walked to the pressurized observation deck and looked at the wasteland of gray regolith below, much of it churned with rover tracks and footprints, looking like a beach after a busy Saturday afternoon.

He pulled out his fone and tried once more—as if coming out onto the observation deck might make a difference—but the computerized voice from AT&T Interlunar told him for the seventh time that service between Earth and the Moon was currently unavailable, that they had technicians working on the problem, and that they hoped to have service restored shortly. Yet how could AT&T Interlunar work on the problem when the communications disruption was yet another pressure tactic on the part of the Tarsalans? In a fit of frustration, he threw his fone against the polycarbonate pressure glass. But fones were hard to break, and after a defeated sigh he picked it up, inspected it, and put it back in his pocket.

He glanced once more at Earth—and at the green thing that grew over it like a fungus. The unnerving scene came to him slightly warped, the result of the man-made magnetic field around Nectaris that protected its citizens from solar wind and electron-stripped galactic radiation. What could he do? The shroud slithered across the western hemisphere like a garden slug, rippling at the edges, pitted with brown specks, mottled with even darker spots that looked like mildew. He glanced at North Carolina and saw clouds—a June storm whirling up from the Gulf. Was Glenda being smart about it? Was she driving to Raleigh and stocking up on canned goods? Was she purchasing candles, matches, and batteries? Was she maxing out their credit cards, buying time, hunkering down, preparing for the worst?

Or was she talking over the back fence with Leigh Phelps? He cringed as he thought of Leigh, wondering how his suspicions could have blunted his judgment so badly. Just because the rest of his life was falling apart didn’t necessarily mean his wife was sleeping with the neighbor.

He placed his hand against the pressure glass, sadly realizing that his blowup about Leigh was just a symptom of a larger problem, a growing malaise in their marriage that seemed to be creeping into his and Glenda’s life the way the Tarsalans were making this bizarre shroud creep around the Earth. He flexed his fingers against the polycarbonate. He wanted to touch Earth, embrace it, save it, stop this sickening green pall from enveloping it. But the shroud persisted, and as he glanced toward the East Coast he saw, for the first time, an opposite edge, and understood that east would meet west, south would meet north; all the various blooms would join up, and darkness would entomb the Earth.

For several seconds he fought to control his panic. He had failed his family so often in the past, and he didn’t want to fail them now. But no flights in and no flights out—not with this Tarsalan shroud.

His panic ebbed and he went back to his room. He switched on the TV and watched the news, the Nectaris local broadcast. The news team had some breaking information. Three fresh blooms had formed: one over the Indian Ocean, another over South Africa, and a third above Bermuda.

Before he could get the details, someone knocked on his door. He walked over and answered, knowing who it was, full of mixed emotions, and not sure how he would react.

Ian Hamilton stood there. “I don’t know about you, but I’m bar-bound. I’ve been watching the news all morning. It’s depressing the hell out of me.”

“You know I don’t drink anymore, Ian.”

“Gerry, drinking is the chief reason people come to the Moon.”

“I’ll have a cranberry juice.”

“With vodka.”

“With ice.”

Ian shook his head. “You sure have changed.”

“I can’t go carousing like I used to.”

“So you’re going to pull a Neil on me?”

“Actually, I’m going to pull a Gerry.”

The hotel lounge, Tranquility Base, served drinks to a large, mixed crowd. Gerry and Ian found stools at the bar with a good view of the TV. People negotiated the weak Moon gravity with varying degrees of success, the native Moon workers managing with ease, but the visitors from Earth overstepping themselves, crashing into tables and chairs. Most of the furniture was padded and bolted to the floor.

Many Earthlings restricted themselves to Velcro paths.

On TV, the Lunar Broadcasting Corporation played live pictures of Earth taken from the Lunette Surveyor Satellite. The image of the shroud, like a diseased piece of flesh, reminded Gerry of the rot he sometimes found in the deepest corners of his refrigerator. What in God’s name was he going to do? It was real. It was happening. And he was stuck on the Moon, as powerless as could be.

It left him in a piss-poor mood, and questioning the motive behind Ian’s knock and subsequent invitation to Tranquility Base. Ian ordered drinks, a Jack for himself and a cranberry juice for Gerry. To make matters worse, his old friend ordered a shot of Smirnoff on the side for Gerry, as if he wanted to tempt Gerry any way he could. Conversation between them froze. After a minute Gerry did the repetition-gets-the-message-across thing one more time.

“I’m not drinking, Ian. These aren’t the good old days anymore.”

“Is it going to kill you?”

“It just might.”

“I know you’re worried, but maybe if you had a drink—”

“Ian, no. I’ve been sober for two years. I’m not going to blow it now. Especially not with that thing around the Earth.”

“Then why the hell did you come to the Moon in the first place? Without your wife.” He laughed in the old boisterous way. “Come on. Let’s party.”

“I don’t need alcohol to party.”

“Yes, but this is the first time we’ve seen each other in seven years.”

“I had no idea you were here.”

“But surely to God it calls for a drink. After all the great drinking times we had?”

“Ian, as I much as I like you, I regret all those times we got drunk together. Thanks for the vodka, but I don’t think so.”

Ian shook his head in a hard-done-by way. “I wish I was rich enough to say no to free booze. I may have to take her off your hands, if you really don’t want her.”

“Be my guest.”

Ian considered. “We’ll leave it by your glass for the time being. You might change your mind. If you’re not going to drink…if you want to celebrate our reunion with just a crummy old cranberry juice, and not remember all those good times…”

“Ian, I want to remember all those good times. But there were some bad times too. Times that hurt Glenda. Times that hurt my kids. It’s going to take me a long time to face up to that, but it starts without drinking an ounce.”

Ian looked away and sighed, gripping his Jack Daniel’s as if it were the last one he would ever have.

“The truth is, Gerry… I don’t care if you drink or not. I just want to talk to you. I’ve got something on my mind, and I thought if you had a drink… you’d be a little more receptive. What I’ve been meaning to tell you… ever since you got here, but didn’t have the guts… God, it was crazy seeing you in the civic pool the other night. After seven years! And up here on the Moon. That was really something. And I didn’t want to put a damper on things at that particular moment, so I thought I would wait a couple of days… but I was meaning to ask you… even despite the recent circumstances you told me about… I mean… how good, really, is your financial situation? The reason I ask is that AviOrbit’s reducing my retainer. They do that to pilots who turn fifty in the calendar year… it’s just their policy, and there’s nothing I can do about it, but it still caught me by surprise, even though I knew it was coming, and now… now my own personal budget… I find I’m running a bit short, so I was just wondering… If you can afford a trip to the Moon, you must be doing something right. Especially if you’re staying at the Buena Vista.”

“Ian, it’s really nice meeting you here, and it was a big surprise… but the only reason I came to the Moon, and didn’t go somewhere else, was because my parents bought the trip for me years ago, when the Buena Vista was having a big promotion. Package-deal vouchers with no time limit. My parents gave me the voucher when I graduated. Neil got one too. Without the voucher, I wouldn’t be here. As for my money… I already told you, North Carolina State let me go six months ago. Glenda and I are hardly making our mortgage payments, Hanna’s asthma medication is killing us, and my severance pay is running out.”

Ian now looked hangdog. “I just thought if you could afford a trip to the Moon… I didn’t realize you had the voucher.”

Gerry had a closer look at Ian and could hardly believe his old friend was here. He wore a rawhide jacket with huge shoulder pads and silver-flake detailing. Old Ian Hamilton, the god of good times, the prophet of empty pockets, with his seat-of-his-pants religion. And was he truly surprised that money had finally found its way into the conversation? It was always money with Ian. And with him as well, come to think of it. And now this ridiculous trip to the Moon. He regretted the old package-deal voucher. He wanted to be with his family.

His anxiety came back. He couldn’t stop thinking of Glenda. He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty in

North Carolina. What was she doing? She would be getting ready for bed. Was she thinking about him?

Or, after his most recent performance, did she even care about him anymore?

“You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” asked Ian.

For someone so insensitive, Ian sure could be sensitive at times.

“All the things we fought about, Ian…. Do you know I actually had the gall to accuse her of fooling around with the neighbor? You see what a ridiculous man I am? And it wasn’t only about the neighbor.

The finances… the move to Old Hill… never having enough time for each other. And the drinking… it’s still like a nightmare to both of us, even after two years.” Gerry shook his head. “She really took it badly when I blew up about the neighbor. God, I regret it. Now I’m up here, and she’s down there, and I have no way of getting in touch with her. Did you hear anything on TV about AT&T Interlunar getting things up and running again? I don’t understand how they can get things going if the Tarsalans are causing the problem.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “I understand Mayor Hulke’s office is getting official communications. Us plebs, though… forget it.”

“I sure would like to talk to Glenda and get it straightened out. We walked right to the brink, Ian. I told her I was sorry before I came up, and we both thought it was a good idea I use the old voucher so we could have some time apart, but… she had this look in her eyes, like she was making plans—like she just wanted out—and it’s scaring the hell out of me. You don’t know what you have until you’re in danger of losing it.”

A special report came on the TV. Both men looked up.

Mayor Malcolm Hulke was making an announcement. The anchorman disappeared, and a shot of the Nectaris Civic Center’s Council Hall came onto the screen. It was a round chamber three times the size of the Buena Vista’s largest meeting room, blasted right into the gray rock of the Moon, the surface laminated with polycarbonate, the space lit by a galaxy of halogen lights. Various council and media members sat in the chamber. Locals and visitors filled half the public gallery.

Hulke emerged from a doorway to the left. He wore shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with the latest tourism logo for Nectaris: a crescent moon drinking a piña colada with a big smile on its face, and some dice in the foreground with the dots made to look like craters. Hulke was a slightly overweight young man with a patch of tawny hair combed over his narrow pate, close-set eyes that reminded Gerry of mole eyes, and the oddly smooth complexion of a man who had spent his entire life in the Moon’s weak gravity. He climbed the steps with an ease of motion an Earthman simply wouldn’t have on the Moon, his slender bones the product of Ossimax—the low-grav anti-bone-leaching compound they put in the water here. He stopped at the podium, took a waferscreen from his pocket, unfolded it, then tapped his temple three times to activate his automatic contact lenses.

The mayor looked at those in the public gallery, then turned to the cameras, to his waferscreen, and at last to the members of the media. “Just before we get started, I want to say I won’t be answering any questions about the alleged Oxygen Production Unit kickbacks, so if you’ve come to dog me with that old horse you might as well go home. I’ve surrendered all appropriate documents to the special investigator’s office, and until he makes an evaluation, I’d appreciate it if you’d just drop it for a while.

We’ve got real news to talk about tonight, this whole shroud thing around the Earth.”

The noise in Tranquility Base subsided as people turned to the TV.

“The Tarsalans unilaterally suspended immigration negotiations a couple weeks ago, and now they’ve gone and put this shroud around the Earth, and who knows when they’re going to take it down?

Generally, communications are intermittent. We’re getting a few special drops from the United States, messages-in-a-bottle-type things, and we’re doing our best to reply…so it’s not like we can’t talk to them, and find out what’s really going on… because we can, at least on a limited basis. And I see Richard Glamna already has his hand up, but I’m going to ignore you, Richard, because I can tell you’ve been saving up another OPU zinger, and if you go ahead, you’ll just embarrass yourself. So put your hand down, and let’s concentrate on what’s important. Like I say, some of these drops are making it through, so we’re getting the… the gist of things. And I guess the gist of things… how can I put the gist of things?”

Hulke paused, and his face settled into a slightly comical, questioning, but ultimately benign expression of disbelief, as if he were surprised and even mildly amused by the gist of things.

“The Tarsalans are telling us…or at least the U.N. is telling us… that our good buddies in the Tarsalan mothership won’t come back to the table until they get their way.” Hulke had to pause again, his shoulders rising, his brow pinching with incredulity, as if he found this notion ridiculous. “The G-15”—and he said this with a kind of ass-kissing reverence—“along with the other developed nations of Earth, have made a final offer: the Kanem Region of Chad, the Arnhem Land Reserve in the Northern Territory of Australia, and the Chattahoochee National Forest in the state of Georgia.” He looked around, his face frozen in a mask of beneficence, as if the offer of these small land packages to the aliens was the best deal anybody could ever hope for, like getting a complimentary night in the presidential suite at the Buena Vista. “Unfortunately, the Tarsalans aren’t playing ball. It really makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Lisa Rand, of the Lunar Broadcasting Corporation, stood up. Why the mayor let her get away with it, and not Richard Glamna, Gerry couldn’t guess. Maybe because she was a lot prettier than Glamna.

“Mayor, have the Tarsalans made any moves against the Commonwealth of Lunar Colonies, and can we expect a similar shroud to develop around us?”

The mayor nodded, as if he had been anticipating this question right from the start. “I don’t have any concrete information on that right now, Lisa. But according to our customs records, all Tarsalan visitors to the CLC returned to their mothership three weeks ago, well before their negotiation team said sayonara to Earth. So does this mean they’re planning something for us? I don’t know. At this point I think we should be prepared for anything.”

The young LBC reporter persisted. “But as far as you know, we’re not looking at a shroud.”

“The real problem for us right now, Lisa, is this blockade of weaponized satellites the Tarsalans have deployed around the Earth. Earth can’t send us any supplies. So there’s nothing in the way of food coming in. Which means we do have a situation, but a situation revolving mainly around food. We could start to feel the pinch in as little as a few weeks. Bear in mind that the summer is our busiest season.

We’ve got more mouths to feed. I’ve sent some guidelines to the hotels. Nothing too drastic. At least not right now. A bit of rationing. Shorter menus. I think all of us on the Moon could benefit from cutting back, especially on the rich desserts. I know I could stand to lose a pound or two. I understand how some of our hotel guests…how they came up here to splurge and have a good time, and now I’ve got to throw a wet blanket on the whole shebang, and I guess they’ll end up being mad at me. But we have to watch ourselves if we’re going to be serious about this thing. I know that’s not our specialty on the Moon, being serious, but we have no idea how long the Tarsalans are going to go on with this.”

The mayor looked at his waferscreen, tapped it a few times to change text, then faced the cameras once more.

“You’ll want to know if the U.S. fired at the shroud. As a matter of fact, they have. But their missiles had little effect. They made a number of temporary holes, but that’s all. Secretary of Defense Sidower said it’s a bit like fighting a ghost; that you go to punch it and your fist goes right through. Anyway… since current military options seem to be limited right now, Sidower says it might be a good idea to take a scientific approach. And I say wunderbar, fantabulous, and muchas gracias, Mr. Secretary, for finally coming up with an idea that might actually work.” He raised his index finger. “Not to be outdone…” The self-immolating smile Hulke was so well known for came to his face. “But I think we should try to do the same thing here. We’ve got a lot of scientists on holiday here.” He let his finger settle to his side, and the holopaint on his T-shirt made the crescent moon wink. “So… to all you scientists out there, please give us a hand. Please join us. I’ve booked Section A of the H. G. Wells Ballroom at the Armstrong Convention Center for six-thirty tonight. I thought we all might sit around and talk. Shoot the breeze, so to speak.

See what we can come up with, rather than give Earth all the honors as usual. If nothing else, it should be a good time.”

2

Neil Thorndike sat on his yacht, the Escapade, his feet in braces, strapped into his casting chair, his fishing rod bent against the weight of a freshly hooked blue marlin. Louise stood next to him, a daiquiri in her hand. Pedro expertly maneuvered the yacht so the fish wouldn’t swim beneath it. Neil’s three daughters, Melissa, Ashley, and Morgan, leaned against the taffrail, watching. Things would have been perfect if it weren’t for the green storm approaching from the west.

Here in the West Indies, in the U.S. Virgin Islands off the coast of St. John, with Trunk Bay visible over the southern horizon, the sky was sunny and it could have been any June—oh, those two last glorious weeks in June, when he went on holiday with his family, when he was done with the school year, and hadn’t yet embarked on his summer research. The only time during the whole year he felt free. As usual, he had a blue marlin on his line. His luck with the great blue never failed.

Only what was he going to do about this green storm… this emerald shroud drawing ever closer to the sunny shores of Trunk Bay?

He wondered what effect it would have on the gardens of his fifteen-room vacation home overlooking the bay. Would all his beautiful tropical miracles wither and die? The marlin offered slack and he reeled it in. What kind of effect was the shroud going to have on his holiday? How long before Tony Bayard issued an executive order from the Oval Office to track him down? He wasn’t going to think about it.

The shroud. The media name for it. Still, he was curious. The Tarsalans never ceased to amaze him. It was like the old saying: What would they think of next?

The marlin jumped out of the water. Morgan clapped her hands. Melissa and Ashley looked bored. But Morgan—she was still young enough to appreciate the thrill. Poor Morgan. What was he going to do about her? The fish arched on its side and splashed spectacularly into the water. His line tightened and he braced against the resulting drag. Gabriel and Raymondo stood ready at the back with grappling hooks.

He wondered what they made of that green storm up there; whether they were concerned about their families or trying to figure out how they were going to cope with it. The marlin offered slack again and Neil relaxed. The Escapade shuddered as it plowed into a large wave. An explosion of spray rained down on the boat.

As the spray cleared, he saw a Coast Guard vessel approaching from Trunk Bay.

He sagged in his chair.

“Neil?” said Louise.

“Here they come,” said Neil.

“Who?” she said.

He pointed. “I knew it couldn’t last.”

She turned and watched the vessel. He glanced at Louise, the love of his life, and saw a slackening of her jaw.

He called out in Spanish, “Raymondo, it looks like you’re going to have to get in the chair and take over.” Raymondo glanced at Neil, then out at Trunk Bay. He put his grappling hook on the deck and helped Neil out of the straps. Neil got out of the chair and helped Raymondo strap himself in. He gave the man a benevolent grin. “Get some good pictures of it. And make sure you record its weight. I keep a log.”

He walked over to Morgan and stroked her light brown hair. “It looks like Daddy’s going to have to go.”

“You’re always going,” said Morgan.

“Not always.”

“But this was going to be special. You said you weren’t going to let them bother you, no matter what.”

“I know, sweetie. But Daddy’s going to have to deal with all those…green clouds up there. It looks like it’s turning into a big emergency. So I really have to go.”

“You were going to help me with my reading.”

“Mommy’s going to do that.”

“When will you be back?”

He kissed her forehead. “As soon as I can, sweetie. In the meantime, have fun. Ashley, Melissa, I want you including Morgan while I’m gone. And please don’t tease her.” He glanced at the sky, then turned to Louise. “I’m going to finish this up quickly. The Tarsalans think they’re smart, but they’re not that smart.”

There it was, his usual bold confidence—the certainty that he could do anything, beat anything, and win anything.

Louise came to his side. “What do you think it’s made of?”

“I have no idea. But I’ll find out.”

A worried look came to her face. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

He had to think about that. “ We’re going to be all right. People with money are going to weather this thing just fine. It’s people like…Gerry and Glenda, for instance, who might be… inconvenienced by it.

Why don’t you give Glenda a call when you get back to the house? I worry about her. Especially now that Gerry’s run off to the Moon. See if you can figure out a way to give her money without making her feel like she’s begging.”

“But is that thing… do you think it’s going to…”

“I don’t know. And I’m not going to worry about it. My guess is that I’ll beat it in a week or two. I’ve got the low-temperature superconductivity thing starting in the middle of July, and I’ve got to have this cleared up by then. It’s probably some simple compound that’s going to break easily. The Tarsalans haven’t come here with massive resources, so they can’t afford something complex, or particularly resistant. This is just a scare tactic. And the president will give me carte blanche, like he always does. In a few weeks, all this stuff will fall harmlessly to the Earth like… like… what’s that book by Dr. Seuss? The one Morgan loves so much? The one where it rains all the green muck?”

“Bartholomew and the Oobleck.”

“Oobleck. Right. That’s all this stuff is.” Neil’s brow furrowed. “I forget how that story ends. It’s been so long since I read it to Morgan.”

“The king says he’s sorry for having his magicians conjure up Oobleck, and the Oobleck melts away.”

Neil nodded. “Right. That’s how easy it’s going to be. I’m going to look up at the sky, I’m going to say I’m sorry, and it’s going to melt away.”

3

Glenda Thorndike’s alarm rang at seven in the morning, but through the fog of her sleep she thought it must have gone off early, because when she opened her eyes it was still dark outside. Then it all came back to her. The shroud. Her body tensed. She reached for Gerry’s side of the bed and, even though it was cold and empty, she left her hand there for a long time.

At last she pulled it away. As she pushed her covers off, she felt a distinct chill in the house. The house should have been warm on a June morning. She should have heard cardinals outside her window—oh, how she loved the song of the cardinal. But it felt like the beginning of winter.

She maneuvered her feet into her slippers—sturdy Cree moccasins Gerry had bought for her last Christmas—pulled on her housecoat, and walked to the window. She drew the sheers aside and looked upward. The sky roiled, stitching itself together in an ever-thickening patchwork of green, light in some places, dark in others, like the smoke from a genie’s bottle—magical and impossible, terrible yet wondrous. She weakened in fear.

She could make out the woods behind the house, and saw a deer nibbling the grass. The deer didn’t seem bothered by the shroud. But the birds. Where were the birds? The feeder should have been Grand Central Station at this time in the morning.

She walked to her dresser and lifted her fone. An expensive device. Gerry had one too. Rented units, because how often did they speak to each other on an interlunar basis? She pressed the automatic redial and the fone beeped through the digits of his number. As usual she got the same infuriating message: Interlunar communications were currently unavailable, they had technicians working on the problem, and they hoped to have service restored shortly. Then she heard a new addition to the message. “Due to the

length of the service interruption, AT&T Interlunar will be sending each of its valued customers a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate, redeemable at any Hutton-Lewis Beauty Spa location.” She clicked off in anger. She didn’t want a beauty spa. She wanted her husband.

Missed him.

Had to say she was sorry.

Loved him after all, and wanted him back.

She kicked off her moccasins, let her nightgown drop, peeled off her underthings, walked to the en suite wash-room, and got in the shower. She felt as if she were taking a shower in the middle of the night. She washed her hair and body, then got out, dried off, and wrapped a towel turban-style around her hair. She walked into the bedroom naked, and tried the fone again—couldn’t help it—hoping against hope that this would be the minute, the second, the precise moment when the techies at AT&T Interlunar would work their magic and restore her service. But it was nada, nyet, impossiblé —then the offer of a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a Hutton-Lewis Spa.

She clicked off.

She got into her nursing home uniform, blow-dried her hair, and went to wake Jake and Hanna for their third to last day of school.

Jake was out of bed in seconds, happy and excited. He ran to the front window and threw open the curtains. He looked up at the sky. He sank to his knees, as if praying to God, lifted his hands to his cheeks, and said, “Wow,” his voice suffused with a soft and quavering reverence. “It’s gotten a lot thicker overnight, hasn’t it, Mom? Isn’t it cool?”

“Jake, it’s not cool.”

“It’s cool, Mom. I don’t care what you say.”

“Go pour some cornflakes. And go easy on the milk. We have to make it last.”

“I’m going to turn on the TV and see if there’s anything new.”

“There won’t be anything new. Just eat your corn-flakes and get ready. You always have to scramble for the bus.”

She continued down the hall and went into Hanna’s room. Hanna had a poster of Beethoven on the wall.

An electronic piano rested on a stand below it, and Glenda saw that Hanna’s music was turned to the

“Moonlight Sonata.” Hanna’s clarinet sat on its bell next to the piano. Hanna slept deeply. Glenda shook her daughter, who opened her eyes and turned her head. She looked at Glenda as if she were still in a dream, and made an unverbalized noise that was meant to acknowledge her mother in a nonchalant and uninterested way, as if Glenda were the most boring and annoying spectacle in the world. Then she turned over, closed her eyes again, and slipped back into oblivion.

“Hanna, come on. The bus is going to be here soon. You need a shower. Your hair’s a mess.”

“I’ll wear a scarf around my head.”

“Hanna, you need to wash your hair. You should try and get into these habits before you go to college.”

“One more minute?” Hanna bargained.

“Your voice sounds a little rough.”

“I need my puffer.”

And as if she had just now remembered she was afflicted with chronic asthma, Hanna reached out her long, skinny arm so that it double-jointed backward, fumbled for her bronchodilator, put the mouthpiece to her mouth in a greedy gesture, and gave herself three good blasts. Glenda made a mental note. Had to get more. Hanna was running out. But where was the money? And that thing in the sky. Plus the pills.

And that thing in the sky. Hanna sat up and coughed—coughed long and hard like she did every morning.

With that thing still in the sky.

“That’s it, honey. Get it all up. Then get into the shower. You know the steam does you good.”

“One more minute?” Hanna said between coughs.

“You’ve had a minute.”

“That didn’t count. Give me five more minutes.”

“Let’s not make the bus wait this morning. Come on. Out of bed.” She gripped Hanna’s ankles, playing with her like she was a kid, even though she was sixteen. How did her little Hanna grow so tall? Just like her father. Hanna tried to pull her legs away, but it made her laugh and she finally sat up. She looked around the room, and at last out the window.

“Is it ever dark.”

“I know.”

“I wish Daddy was here. He never should have gone to the Moon.”

“Your dad’s had a rough year.”

“Yes, but he should have taken us with him.”

“The voucher was his from a long time ago. And he needed some time alone.”

“I’ve never been to the Moon. Half the kids in my class have already gone. Why don’t we get to go to the Moon?”

“You know the answer. Get into the shower. And don’t forget to take your asthma pill.”

“I’ve only got two left.”

“I’ll pop by the pharmacy after work.”

“Is Dad going to get a new job?”

“He’s going to worry about that when he gets back.”

“How’s he going to get back, now that the Tarsalans—”

“Hanna, let’s live a day at a time. The bus is going to be here in forty-five minutes.”

She left her daughter and went into the kitchen.

The kitchen windows were big, and the presence of that thing in the sky made itself felt in the hairs on the back of her neck. She lifted Hanna’s pill bottle from the windowsill. Like a good boy, Jake was crunching down his cornflakes. She willed there to be more than two pills in Hanna’s bottle, but willing things was so much magical thinking and, sure enough, only two remained.

She then checked the cupboards for food. Canned stew, soup, vegetables, fruits, and tomato sauce lined the shelves. How long was this thing going to last, and was food going to be a problem, and was she letting her imagination run away with her, like she always did?

She opened the fridge. Stocked full of stuff. But she needed more. People were hoarding, and the grocery stores around Old Hill couldn’t keep up. She heard Hanna getting into the shower. Only where was she going to get the money to buy more groceries? And the fuel cell in the car needed recharging.

And the car’s software was due for an update, and how was she going to pay for that? She took a few breaths, trying to calm herself. If only she could get a few more hours at the nursing home; they just might make ends meet if she had more shifts at Cedarvale.

The phone rang, not the interlunar one but the regular one, the one spelled with “ph.” She hurried over, thinking she might miraculously receive information about Gerry, but when she turned on the vidscreen, she saw Louise’s face, sharp, crystal-clear—uncanny what a good transmitting set would do. She was sure Louise saw nothing but a blur.

“Glenda?”

“Hi, Louise.”

“Can you fix your contrast? I can hardly see you.”

Crappy Home Tech brand, fifteen years old; no wonder Louise couldn’t see her. She was sick of having crappy things and living in a crappy house. She pressed the appropriate function key.

“Is that better?”

“You need a new set.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Trunk Bay.”

“Oh. You’re down there.”

“Have you heard from Gerry yet?”

“No. AT&T Interlunar is still working on the problem.”

“Neil wanted me to phone you. To see how you were doing. Is it dark there yet?”

“You can’t see open sky anymore. The last of it disappeared a few days ago.”

“It’s worrisome, isn’t it?”

“Does Neil have anything to say about it?”

Because surely her genius brother-in-law would save them from all this.

“The Secret Service came for him yesterday,” said Louise. “I imagine he’s been in meetings ever since.”

“Oh… so he’s going to…”

“They’ve drafted him for it.”

“And does he have any ideas… I mean… about what to do?”

“He’s confident he can get rid of it in as little as two weeks. You know Neil.”

“So you think it’ll be over in two weeks?” Her shoulders eased in relief.

“That’s the timetable Neil’s given himself. And you know Neil. How are the kids, by the way? How’s Hanna’s asthma?”

“It always gets worse this time of the year. All the pollen.”

“And Jake’s okay?”

“Jake’s fine. He’s loving all this… this craziness. He thinks it’s cool.”

“Did they give you more hours at the nursing home yet?”

She looked away. “The lady who was supposed to leave might not leave now.”

“Oh… because if you need a little help… and I don’t want you to think of it as charity…but with Gerry stuck on the Moon… Neil and I just thought… you know, if you needed a little extra help to tide you over, we’d be happy to…”

Glenda’s lower lip stiffened. “No… I think I can manage.” Glenda, just cave in, swallow your pride, you need the money. “I have a little put away for emergencies.” Lies, lies, lies.

“And you’ve got enough to pay for Hanna’s medicine?”

“Oh, yes… of course.” Shift away from your own neediness, Glenda. Focus on kids. “How are the girls, Louise?”

“We’re always worried about Morgan.”

“Morgan’s a sweetheart.”

“I just wish she’d learn how to read. She’s ten years old. She should know how to read by now.”

“Kids have their own schedules for that kind of thing.”

“Glenda… if you get into trouble… or if this thing goes on for any length of time and you need some help, just call us. Don’t be proud. I can’t stand the thought of you and your kids going without.”

“We’ll be fine, Louise. Really we will.”

But as she disconnected the call, she felt worried again. Why did she have this senseless pride? Why was it so important for her to show Neil and Louise that she and Gerry could make a go of it, and that they could cope in the face of adversity? She pushed these thoughts from her mind, as they were the same old ones she always had, nothing new. Better to take a positive outlook; this whole thing was going to blow over, she was going to get more hours at the nursing home, Gerry was going to come home from the Moon and find a great job, and they would work it out and have the same kind of picture-book marriage Louise and Neil did.

But in the meantime…

In the meantime.

She went back to the cupboard and looked at the food. She had a vision. Of a green world turning brown. Of food disappearing. Of massive famine.

Surely it wouldn’t come to that.

But if it did…

She walked to the basement door, opened it, went downstairs, glanced around at the junk, and spied Jake’s old toy box, red and yellow, made of chipboard, with a clown face painted on the front. The basement light went on as she passed the sensor. She lifted the antique, rolled-up maps, the ones Gerry had collected over the years—not because he used them, just because he liked them—opened the toy box, and saw a lot of action figures, toy vehicles, and a toy xylophone. She emptied the toys on the floor, took the box upstairs, and placed it on the counter.

“That’s my toy box,” said Jake.

“Do you mind if I use it?”

“What do you need it for?”

“I’m going to bury some treasure. You can help, if you get ready in time.”

“Mom, we don’t have any treasure. We’re broke.”

“I think we should bury some food.”

“Why?”

“Just in case we need it.”

“Why don’t we keep the food in the cupboard, where it belongs?”

“Because I think we should have a backup cache.”

She took cans and jars of nonperishable food from the cupboard and placed them in the toy box. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jake staring at her, his corn-flakes forgotten, a hint of fear tracing apprehension on his smooth young face.

“Why bury food?” he asked.

“Just in case things get bad.”

“Things won’t get bad, Mom. You just have to believe that they won’t.”

“You sound like your father.”

“You don’t have to bury food.”

“I’m the mother. It’s my job to look after you. And I take the job seriously.”

“But why bury food?”

“Because I don’t want anybody coming into the house and stealing it.”

“Why would they steal it?”

“Jake, how many times do I have to tell you? There are bad people in the world. And if bad people get desperate, they become extra bad. If this shroud lasts any length of time, everything’s going to stop growing and food’s going to run out. You think anything’s going to grow with that thing up in the sky?

Plants need light to grow. Two weeks of total darkness, and that’s it, there goes next year’s crop.”

“Uncle Neil will talk to the president before that happens.”

“If you need me, I’ll be in the backyard.”

She finished stocking the toy box with jarred and canned foods, and was surprised by how heavy it was once she lifted it. She went out the back door and ventured into the yard. The green sheet of the shroud mottled its way from horizon to horizon. A few clouds floated beneath it. The green was so dark in spots that it verged on black. A raccoon lumbered by at the end of the yard and disappeared into the bushes, all mixed up about night and day.

She carried the box into the woods and found a spot among the sycamores. The leaves on the trees rustled in a cool breeze—too cool for this time of the year. How strange the trees looked, silhouetted against that green sky. She put the box down, walked back to the toolshed, and got the spade. She carried it to the spot between the sycamores, broke the earth, and dug.

The earth smelled rich with living things. She dug some more and, in digging, knew she had made an admission to herself. This wasn’t like the regular and small disasters that befell people on a daily basis, making their lives miserable for a while, then finally drifting away like a bad dream. This was the Apocalypse. And she wanted food for when the Apocalypse finally came.

She arrived for her short morning shift at the Cedar-vale Nursing Home and Long-Term Care Facility an hour later. Old people played chess in the hallways, the lights were up bright, and the inmates were dressed in sweaters or jackets and enjoying themselves, as if the shroud were cause for celebration. She nodded a polite hello to the elderly volunteers in the information kiosk, passed the coffee stand, continued down the hall to Section H, climbed the stairs, and finally reached the Palliative Care Department, where people went to die. She waved to Elma and Karen, two nurse-receptionists, but they were too busy with the phones and didn’t notice her pass. Didn’t matter. Had to speak to her supervisor, and speak to him fast.

She found Whit, a tall black man, at his desk going over the master schedule.

“You too?” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Everybody’s asking for time off.”

“No… I don’t want time off. If you need me to work a few extra hours…”

“I just might.” He motioned out the window. “Everybody’s concerned about the weather.”

She looked out the window and saw the shroud moving across the sky like a green shadow.

“You knew my husband was stuck on the Moon?”

“You were saying.”

“And that the university let him go?”

“That’s tough. I’m sorry about that, Glenda.”

“It’s just that I’m… I’m running a bit short. And Hanna’s got her asthma prescription to fill. And I don’t know what the policy is, but I just thought if I could…if you could give me an advance on my pay. Just to tide me over the next couple of days.”

She hated this, begging for money. But better she beg Whit than Neil and Louise. Whit looked to one side and his forehead creased. He took a deep breath and sighed, then glanced up at her with sympathetic brown eyes.

“It’s all automatic, Glenda. Payroll won’t even accept hours worked—not from me, not from any supervisor—till the Thursday after the pay period ends.”

Her lips tightened in irritation. “And there’s not some special form you can e-mail them?”

“You have nothing in the bank?”

“I live paycheck to paycheck, Whit. That’s the way it is.”

“How much do you need?”

“Enough to buy Hanna’s medicine and some extra food.”

“Will two hundred dollars do?”

“I was hoping for three.”

“I could make three.” He took out his wallet.

She was disarmed by Whit’s generosity. “Whit, I can’t take your money.”

He withdrew a touch-sensitive cash chit, keyed in the appropriate amount, and handed it over. “I don’t want your kids suffering, Glenda. You can pay me back whenever. But if you’re looking for groceries, you may have to go all the way to Raleigh. Dee was telling me there’s nothing around here. The shelves are bare. People are hoarding.”

“So I heard. I plan to make the trip after work.”

“Then take my money, and think nothing of it.”

4

The Armstrong Convention Center was seven stories underground, on the south side of the lofty Apollo Way. A scale model of Apollo Eleven angled upward through the brightly lit space above a fountain that was timed to shoot fifteen streams of water every three seconds. The convention center itself was a domed oddity, chiseled into the rock of the Moon, the rock laminated with polycarbonate.

Gerry and Ian entered via the center doors and passed a coffee shop, a money-exchange place, a travel office, and a number of clothing stores. They soon came to the North Atrium’s moving walkway. The air smelled of marijuana and, glancing up to the next level, Gerry saw two showgirls in costume, rhinestones pasted to various suggestive parts of their bodies, passing a large zebra-striped joint back and forth as they chatted amiably to the cyber-enhanced security guard at the neon-outlined security kiosk.

He and Ian came to the end of the walkway and took three extremely long escalators down to the third lower level. Here they passed a gargantuan tank full of genetically enhanced dolphins, which would come to computer interfaces and conduct rote conversations with tourists for a few dollars. Gerry stared at the dolphins. He had a sudden urge to be near the ocean. He pictured the surf at Nag’s Head, and wanted to be walking barefoot in its foam.

As they entered Section A of the H. G. Wells Ballroom—the walled-off Section B was at present home to an A.A. meeting (he knew them well)—one of the mayor’s aides came forward with a waferscreen and asked Gerry and Ian to write their names, a list of affiliations, areas of expertise, and educational credentials in the spaces provided. Gerry did this, then looked around the room. There seemed to be a preponderance of showgirls and tourist workers here. He was touched. People were eager to help Earth.

In the far corner he saw technical types, several in suits, a number in lab coats, possessed of that curious brand of killer intelligence all technical types had, sitting in a circle arguing about something with the splitting-hairs vehemence customary to their tribe.

“Is that the AviOrbit contingent?” he asked Ian.

“That’s them. They’re all good guys. I don’t see any of the new pilots, though.”

“So these are engineers?” Gerry tried to keep the flagging spirits out of his voice.

“Yup.”

“They build interplanetary spacecraft?”

“Right.”

His voice sank into further hopelessness. “But have no grounding in pure, abstract science.”

“Why don’t you go over and ask them?”

“Let’s just listen to what people have to say. I don’t want to get into a big, long conversation with people I don’t know.”

The mayor’s assistant walked to the podium and handed the waferscreen to Hulke. The mayor scanned the data, flipping through it electronically with a touch of his right index finger. He finally stopped at one page in particular. He then had a few words with his assistant, who pointed across the rows of brown stackable plastic chairs to Gerry. The mayor looked at Gerry, then at the waferscreen, and finally nodded to himself, as if he found Gerry’s presence encouraging.

At last the mayor clapped and got everybody’s attention.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I see here that we have several extremely talented professionals from a variety of major organizations and institutions throughout the solar system. So I’ll try to up my usual rhetorical style. I’ll attempt to be a little more formal. I welcome you to the Moon. I guess I’ll start with a few caveats, quid pro quos, and fine-print stuff, just because I know some of you must have some misconceptions about the Moon. For starters, we do things in a small way here. We’re a tiny community; fifteen thousand permanent residents in Nectaris, and only another ten thousand in the secondary communities.” He spoke as if by rote. “Which means we have nothing in the way of money. I just want to make sure you all understand—this thing is volunteer.”

Several nods assured him that the volunteer nature of the effort was well comprehended.

“Good. I see we have some friends from AviOrbit. I knew Ira would come through for us. But I doubt AviOrbit can contribute much in the way of a budget either, so don’t get your hopes up, just because the techies have arrived. And I see that Professor Luke Langstrom is visiting us from the University of Mars.

Sorry, Dr. Langstrom, but the money for this project will pale in comparison to some of the legendary research grants you’ve worked with. It’s the casinos that have all the money. Not us in council. Professor Langstrom, for those of you who don’t know, was the first to isolate evidence of prehistoric life on Mars in a series of experiments he conducted forty years ago in the Pegasus Cavern System of the Valles Marineris.” He turned to the gathered media. “You see, I know these things too. So the next time you call me ignorant, just remember that.”

Gerry cast a curious glance at Langstrom, who was well into his seventies, had white hair, bushy silver eyebrows, and sat slouched in his chair with a confident but whimsical grin on his face, as if he found the whole lunar effort to destroy the shroud amusing. Langstrom would have been a kindly old grandfather type if it weren’t for something bitter in the eyes, and stingy about his lips. What kind of life had he lived on Mars, wondered Gerry? Did he even care about Earth?

“Also visiting us this week is Associate Professor Gerald Thorndike, of North Carolina State University.” The mayor consulted a lot of additional notes. “Gerald Thorndike is the younger brother of Professor Neil Thorndike, a name many of you in the science community will no doubt know.” Here it was again, his name, always linked to Neil’s. “My assistant has written here that Neil Thorndike was the cowinner of the Nobel Prize in Physics last year, and also winner of the Davison-Germer Prize, and that he’s one of the senior members on the United States National Science Board. We’re extremely honored to have his brother here today. Gerry, welcome to the Moon.”

Gerry felt uncomfortable with this backhanded introduction. People clapped. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been presented as Neil Thorndike’s brother, not as a scientist in his own right. He stood up and took a perfunctory bow, wanting only to get on with things.

He sat down, and Hulke introduced some people from AviOrbit, rocket scientists the lot of them, but maybe a few, he hoped, who had knowledge of basic Earth sciences. Hulke then launched into a recap of everything that had happened in the last two weeks: how negotiations had broken off with the Tarsalans, how all Tarsalan visitors and delegations had returned to the mothership—the TMS as it was called—and how the shroud had grown day by day despite military attempts to destroy it.

“At this point, I’d like to let the scientists take the floor. Professor Langstrom, if you could go first. We’d appreciate any thoughts you might have.”

Langstrom raised his hand dismissively, continuing to smile in his amused way. “I hardly think I’m the ranking scientist here,” the Martian said, taking out a pipe and stuffing it calmly with marijuana. “Gerry Thorndike is. Let the man who has something in jeopardy speak first.”

There was a tone in Langstrom’s voice that Gerry didn’t like, as if he were somehow blaming Gerry for the shroud.

“Dr. Langstrom, you flatter me,” said Gerry.

“I’m a Martian. Have been for the last sixty years. I think we should hear from an Earthman. After all, it’s Earth that’s in peril.” Again, that tone.

Gerry hesitated. “If that’s all right with the mayor.”

Hulke looked at Gerry the way a showbiz manager eyes new talent, with a mixture of hope and despair.

“By all means, Dr. Thorndike. If you think you have something to say.”

“Because I have been thinking a lot about the shroud lately.”

Especially because his wife and family were still on Earth.

“Then come to the podium, and let’s hear it.”

With mounting confidence, Gerry rose from his seat and walked to the podium. He was conscious of his size, tall but lanky, six-four, and how his six-four frame couldn’t seem to get the hang of lunar gravity. As he reached the mayor, he smelled alcohol. He shook hands with Hulke.

The mayor’s hands were cold and moist. “Just give them something to hope for,” he murmured, as if he believed the situation were already lost. “The rationing thing isn’t as good as I’m telling everybody.”

What he saw in the mayor’s eyes was fear. Okay. So things were worse, a lot worse, if the mayor’s eyes were any indication. Things had reached such impossible levels that they actually had to consult scientists. Gerry turned from the mayor, gripped either side of the lectern, and gazed out at his audience.

He could see that they were all counting on him, not because he was Gerry Thorndike but because he was Neil Thorndike’s brother; even the showgirls looked as though they had heard of Neil.

He cleared his throat.

“The shroud,” he said, immediately slipping into lecture mode, as he had in Jarrell Hall at NCSU. “What is it?” He looked around his audience as if he expected someone to answer him, pausing on purpose to get their attention, then continuing with the obvious follow-ups. “Is it alive? Is it dead? Will all the blooms finally join up and cover the Earth? And if the shroud envelops Earth, will any sunlight get through? Will it let heat through? If it lets heat through, will it trap heat, the way greenhouse gases do on Venus? Will the Tarsalans employ the shroud for a fixed period, or will they allow it to remain in place indefinitely? If it remains in place indefinitely, what will the consequences be—socially, politically, and environmentally?”

He paused, and leaned more firmly against the lectern.

“You get up in the morning, and the sun doesn’t rise, and the birds don’t sing. It’s dark, and it stays dark all the time. Today is June twenty-fourth. It’s summer in the northern hemisphere. The last spring blossoms have left the trees and the leaves are out. The wheat is still green, and the spring rice in Asia is just partway along. The vegetable crops are no more than young shoots. Now there’s no sunlight. What does that mean? I think this is what we have to concern ourselves with most. The immediate effect of the shroud is going to be on plant life. A lot of plant life is fairly resilient and can hang on through a lot of punishment. But depending on how long the Tarsalans decide to go on with this shroud… a farmer will walk into his field, and he’ll see his wheat or corn growing weaker every day and starting to wilt in the darkness, and at some point he’ll make the decision to plow it under because it won’t be harvestable.

You get enough farmers doing this, and the markets start to react, and consumers react, and panic sets in. And that’s what I think is going to be the most negative effect of they would send this to this… shroud… at least in the short term. This… unavoidable panic. People will hoard, and that will just make the situation worse. And really, the food-distribution system, at least in the U.S., isn’t set up to take major or prolonged strain. There’s about a one-week supply in the commercial food network, and as for national emergency stores, we’ve got a six-week supply. But you have to remember that most of these emergency stores are in Western Secessionist states, so that’s where we get a political factor, and the strain may be enough to worsen not only the panic, but also the hoarding.”

He paused to register the effect he was making. Judging from the blank looks, it seemed many of them, especially the Lunarians, didn’t know too much about the Secessionist Movement in the western United States. One middle-aged man, a doctor in a lab coat, looking as if he had just ducked over from the Aldrin Health Sciences Center, got up and asked him about it.

Gerry marshaled a few brief facts. “It’s been building for the last hundred years or so, and finds its origins in the general political polarization of the United States into red and blue states. Also, over the past fifty years, as the Hispanic population in these states has shifted from the minority to the majority, the movement has gained a cultural and religious impetus. Make no mistake, the governors in these states are hard-core, and they know their grass-roots constituents favor eventual secession, especially after their long and fractious fight over illegal immigration with the Federal Government. A few of these governors are so archsecessionist that I’m sure they’ll willingly blockade their emergency food stores for political gain. That’s going to adversely impact an already tenuous U.S. food-distribution system. This means the Federalist states could be facing major food shortages sooner than we’d like to imagine. And these food

shortages are going to be badly exacerbated by hoarding.”

The doctor sat down, seemingly satisfied with Gerry’s overview. Gerry continued.

“Western Secessionism is one of the reasons people are going to hoard. But if it gets dark and stays dark, they’re going to hoard because they won’t be sure if they can count on next year’s crop. We don’t know how far the Tarsalans are going to go with this shroud. Or if we can defeat it. As for third-world countries, the situation will be that much worse.” He gave everybody a good glancing over. “And what about us here on the Moon?” He caught the mayor shifting uncomfortably. “Given current stockpiles, and quick implementation of the mayor’s rationing program, we’re perhaps in a better situation than Earth.

But I imagine things will go critical fairly quickly.”

He paused.

“So that’s why I’m really glad the mayor has called this meeting. Because we should get working on this right away. I haven’t got too much else to say. But I think we should all try to appreciate how serious the situation can become. If the Tarsalans decide to go long-term with this, it could get bad. I’m talking really bad.”

The usual party atmosphere of the Moon was gone.

There wasn’t a rustle of sound anywhere.

It was like none of them could believe he was telling them this. As if they had come to party, but he had spoiled the mood.

He glanced around the room once more. And he had to wonder how his brother, Neil, would have handled the situation; whether he would have stood up here and listed problem after problem, as he had done, or if he would have tried to offer solutions. This was the essential difference between them. Neil had all the answers. All Gerry had were questions.

The mayor seemed to think so too, because he finally cleared his throat and got up from his chair.

“Thanks for that insightful… uh… overview of the potential… should I call them problems, or disasters… thanks for that, Gerry.”

He left the lectern and wasn’t sure if he had added anything substantive to the discussion at all. He glanced at Luke Langstrom. Langstrom didn’t look so amused anymore. He gave Gerry a solemn nod, then got up to say his own two bits about the shroud.

As Gerry sat down, Ian gave him a nudge. “Wow. Not exactly what I was expecting.”

“It’s not going to be a holiday, Ian. At least not if the Tarsalans keep it in place for a long time.”

And Gerry felt like the most unpopular man in the room.

The death of the party.

The guy people avoided because he was such a downer.

He did, indeed, feel like Neil Thorndike’s younger brother.

The meeting broke for refreshments an hour later. Mayor Hulke approached Gerry as he spigoted coffee into a Styrofoam cup. Nothing but coffee these days.

“Would you be willing to head this thing, Gerry?” asked Hulke.

“Me?” Gerry was surprised. “Wouldn’t it be better if one of the guys from AviOrbit did, someone who’s familiar with the scientific resources on the Moon?”

“We thought an Earthling might be more appropriate. And of course you carry the Thorndike name.”

Gerry’s lips tightened. “I’m not my brother, Malcolm. If they’re expecting miracles just because I’m Neil’s brother—”

“No one’s expecting anything. But I touched base with the AviOrbit guys during the break, and they say they would be comfortable if you would… more or less direct things. All these guys from AviOrbit—they’re just techies. They get their orders from Earth, and they build according to spec, and they don’t know how to tackle a project like this, not if there’s going to be a lot of pure science involved.

Believe me, I know. I worked at AviOrbit for fifteen years before I became mayor. You’re the only real, working scientist in the group. What I said on the TV about there being a lot of scientists here on holiday… that was just to boost morale.”

“What about Professor Langstrom?”

“Professor Langstrom’s been retired for years. I think you’re the most suitable candidate, Gerry, and so do a lot of other people.”

Gerry nodded, and couldn’t help feeling flattered. He rarely got asked to be the head of anything. “If that’s the way they feel, I’d be happy to give it a shot. But you were talking about budget. Do we have any budget?”

The mayor looked away. “Not really. The city has an emergency fund for fixing unexpected pressure leaks. We haven’t had a leak in forty-five years, so we could dip into some of that. But it’s not going to be much.”

“I’m just thinking… we may need things… things that only the merchants here can provide. Some might donate. But others might be reluctant. We can’t ask people for their livelihoods. Not if they can’t afford it. So if we have at least a little leeway money—”

“I’ll get council to release some of the emergency fund. But you have to understand, Gerry, our tax base is small. We’ll be running things on a shoestring.”

Gerry put a reassuring hand on the mayor’s shoulder. “Malcolm, you don’t have to worry. I’ve been running things on shoestrings all my life.”

5

Neil sat in the Oval Office six hours later—with barely time to change into a suit. A Secret Service agent walked here and there through the Oval Office, aiming an aerosol can all over the place, spraying the corners, behind pictures, in the vents. The aerosol particles were charged with bug-disabling properties—the Tarsalans were fond of deploying flying listening devices throughout the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Pentagon. Once the Secret Service agent was done—the room turned out to be clean—National Security Advisor Julie Petrov launched into an overview of the situation.

“The Tarsalans still aren’t budging.”

President Bayard sat behind his desk, a lean man from New Mexico, tall, his cheeks lined and tanned, his hair nearly white, every strand combed meticulously in place. Vice President Ben Baldwin stood to one side with his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, chin thrust forward so his lower lip protruded over his upper one. Others present were the president’s chief of staff, Holden Gregory, and Secretary of Defense Joseph Sidower. Here to represent the National Science Foundation were himself and Dr. Robert Cruz.

“We advised the president to reject the Tarsalan demands,” continued Julie Petrov. “As far as this administration is concerned, all talks are at an end until the Tarsalans remove the shroud, call in their killer satellites, and restore our interplanetary communications. We’ve told them we consider the shroud an act of aggression.” She turned to the secretary of defense. “Joe? Do you want to talk about the military option?”

Sidower shifted forward and tapped his waferscreen a few times. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff are having the Pentagon draw up war plans against the Tarsalan killer satellites, as well as the mothership. The Seventh, Tenth, and I think the…” He consulted his notes. “The Eleventh Orbital Squadrons of the 101st Airborne have been put on highest alert and are prepared to move against the TMS at any moment.

My generals tell me that the main offensive strategy is not a direct attack against the TMS, but rather to establish a net of mines in a series of various orbits around the Earth, so that the whole forms a barrier the TMS will find extremely difficult to maneuver around. The mothership may heighten its orbit to avoid one string of mines, only to find itself smashing into another.”

The president spoke up. “Joe, say I decide to give the order and send the 101stAirborne in.” He tapped his cheek with two fingers. “What’s to stop the Tarsalans from mounting a retaliatory strike from their homeworld at a later date? And how long would it take them to mount a strike from their homeworld?”

Sidower glanced at Neil. “I better hand this over. Neil, maybe you can give us—or the president—an overview on the likelihood of this potential response from the Tarsalans.”

Neil nodded. “Tony, I wouldn’t put the risk too high. We’ve been gathering a lot of data from various observatories, radio-telescope installations, and space-based observation posts for nearly eight years, trying to track back the route the Tarsalans took to get here.” He motioned at the sky. “We’ve learned that the TMS traveled at up to and including—but not beyond—the speed of light.” He leaned forward on the sofa, putting his elbows on his knees. “Their drive emissions stop forty light-years away, in the… it was the 51 Pegasi star system, wasn’t it, Bob?”

“That’s right,” said Cruz. “My team made the preliminary findings. It’s confirmed. The 51 Pegasi star system. Previous observations tell us there’s an Earth-like planet in that system.”

Neil sat back, took his palms from his knees, and raised them upward. “If that’s where they came from—and we’re fairly certain it is—we hypothesize that the TMS took at least forty years to get here.

Since that time, the technology on their homeworld may have improved. And we also have to take into consideration that the Tarsalans trade with numerous other species in several other star systems, and that such trade is bound to accelerate the rate of their own technological advancement.” He paused, caught up in his own speculations. “But while it’s… possible they may have developed a faster-than-light drive

by this time—and that a retaliatory force could arrive here soon—it’s highly unlikely. Even given their current capability to communicate instantaneously over large astronomical distances, the possibility of an attack is remote. Should they in fact decide to retaliate, it would take them four decades to get here, and only if they left fairly immediately after the first Mayday.”

The president lifted his chin, leaned back, and put his hand against his desk blotter. “So in other words, we have forty years to prepare for a retaliatory strike?”

“From the homeworld, yes.”

The president turned to the secretary of defense. “And based on current intelligence, Joe—on everything we know about their military capability—do you think such a retaliatory strike would be… could they make a go of it in any significant way, given the distance they have to travel? I mean, talk about fighting your long-distance war.”

Two creases came to Sidower’s forehead. He reached up and scratched his bald pate. “Tony, if you’re asking me for my best guess…” His eyes narrowed. “Would they fight? Could they fight? From that distance? I’m doubtful. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that they just might pack it in and give up.

Look at it this way. Are they willing to sink another forty years into gaining the right to immigrate to Earth? It doesn’t seem worth it to me. Not really. Especially when we’ve played hardball with them right from the beginning. I can’t speculate with a hundred percent certainty, but I believe a sustained military campaign against Earth from a distance of forty light-years would be like… like trying to write the history of the world with a broken pencil. It wouldn’t work. They’d be fools to try. And if they do try, I believe they’ll again use a passive weapon, like the shroud. Maybe they’ll poison the oceans the next time around.”

“And what’s so passive about the shroud?” asked Ben Baldwin, stepping forward. The vice president glanced around. “All the Tarsalans have to do now is play a waiting game. I hate them for putting us into this position, but maybe we should draft a second counterproposal to their immigration demands. I know our policy is not to deal with blackmailers, but at the same time we might prevent massive loss of life if we go back to the table. Maybe, if we double the original offer, they might accept a compromise and dismantle the shroud. Maybe we should propose a special session of the United Nations and see if we can come up with something that will appease them for the time being. At least so we can buy some time.

Because we need time. We’ve been rushed into this. We had no idea they were going to play this card.”

“In other words, you suggest we stall,” said President Bayard.

“Exactly.”

“And if we come back with a second counterproposal, and they accept it—what then?” asked Sidower.

“We open the door. They see that we’re weak. That’s sending the worst kind of signal, Tony. I personally think you should give the 101stAirborne the order. I think we should destroy as many of those killer satellites as we can. That will give us a freer rein to bust up the shroud with whatever means Neil and his team can devise. And we might even mount some kind of strike against the TMS directly.

Because I think ultimately that should be our focus. They must have some means to control the shroud aboard, and if we can get our hands on it… That doesn’t mean I think we should stop trying to figure out a way to dismantle the shroud from the outside. That’s the whole reason Neil and Bob are here.”

The president paused as he considered the secretary’s words, lifting his hand to his chin and resting it there in a contemplative pose before taking it away and leveling his blue eyes on Neil.

“Neil, could you give us an overview of both the long-term and short-term effects of the shroud?”

Neil sat back as he considered the possible repercussions. “Well… you have the obvious: no crop growth, food shortages, and possible famine. But you also have an overall breakdown in Earth’s various ecosystems. Starting with the oceans, there won’t be any light to generate plant life. That means many creatures will starve. And if these smaller creatures starve, the larger ones that feed on them will starve as well, and so on, up the food chain. If it goes on long enough, atmospheric deterioration might become a problem. Plant life sucks in huge amounts of carbon dioxide and spits out oxygen. So there could be a basic chemical change in our atmosphere.”

“So a greater greenhouse effect?” ventured the president.

“Not in the short term. Short term we’re looking at a significant cool-down. With heat and light from the sun blocked, we could be looking at snow in July. But don’t get me wrong. Even though light won’t get through, heat still will, according to current analysis, and the shroud will trap this heat over the long haul.

Computer models tell us this heat will begin to build. So while we might start off cold, it will get hot fairly quickly. When you take all these things into consideration, the socio-political fallout might be immense.”

The room grew still, and he could tell everyone was thinking of the Western Secessionists.

The president continued. “Why do you think the Tarsalans have decided to use the shroud against us in the first place? If they’re so technically superior to us, why don’t they just mount a full-scale invasion?

Why don’t they just come in and take what they want instead of applying this slow pressure thing on us?”

“For one thing, they don’t have the resources aboard the TMS to mount a full-scale invasion.

Remember, there’s only fifty thousand of them up there, and many of them are just immigrants who want to live on Earth. For another thing, it’s not in their nature to be violent.”

“You know this… this Kafis on a fairly personal level, don’t you?” asked the president.

“He’s one of their senior scientists. I’ve had him as a guest to Marblehill, my home in northern Georgia, numerous times. He’s also one of their junior negotiators, and is responsible for establishing diplomatic relations with the inhabited moons and the inner planets.”

“Is there anything you’ve learned from him that might help us in this particular situation?”

“Only that the shroud fits right in with the teacher-student emphasis of their whole culture. They don’t want to punish us into accepting what they want. They want to teach us that, ultimately, Tarsalan immigration to Earth is the only logical and acceptable proposition. It’s a known fact that Tarsalans have two brains. Many tests have been performed on them, in particular the Cameron Chess Study, and in terms of intelligence quotient it’s been shown that they far outstrip even the most brilliant human being.

They’ve come to the Earth with the notion that they can teach us quite a lot because they’re more advanced than we are.”

“I find that presumptuous as hell,” said Sidower.

“Nonetheless, the teacher-student aspect of their culture, developed over a million years, is hardwired into the way they think about everything. Kafis has a phrase he uses sometimes: Instruction through discipline. They have an instrument on their home planet. It’s called a cinerthax. On Earth we’d consider it an instrument of torture. Tarsalan students purposely tie themselves to the cinerthax while they study, and the cinerthax twists and turns their bodies in the most painful ways. It doesn’t injure them. But it certainly motivates them to learn. That’s their way. And that is, I think, one of the guiding principles behind their decision to mount this shroud around the Earth.”

The president stared at his desk blotter, thinking. “What about the shroud itself, Neil? If we get rid of it, then the pressure’s off, and we can turn the whole thing around.”

Neil didn’t hesitate. He never hesitated, always showing everybody, especially the president, that he belonged in the Oval Office. “If we take an aggressive scientific approach to the shroud, I think we can destroy it in as little as two weeks.” Neil looked around, gauging reaction to this can-do proclamation—and saw hope. Now it was time to cash in. “But Mr. President, I’m going to need resources.”

“Neil, you can have whatever you want. Make a list.”

“For starters, I need a sizable sample of the shroud. We have to get a piece of it into the lab. We have to see what it is, and analyze it on a molecular level. Bob and I have talked about it, and we’ve decided that this is the way to go. You don’t know what something is until you’ve looked at it under a microscope. I’m sure that once we examine it microscopically and analyze it in a number of different ways, we’ll see that it’s an extremely simple compound. I believe the Tarsalans are going to have to do things on the cheap because they don’t have the resources to do things otherwise. And that means simple. Which means there should be an equally simple solution as well, perhaps a chemical one, something that will break the bonds that hold the shroud together. But as I say, in order to arrive at any solution, I need samples. And substantial samples.”

“Any ideas on how we’re going to get these samples?” asked the president.

“We get our friends at the National Center for Atmospheric Research involved. We ask them to loan us three of their HIAPER aircraft.”

Everyone paused.

“And what exactly is a HIAPER aircraft?” asked Julia Petrov.

“HIAPER is an acronym.” Yes, he had it all at his fingertips. Six hours between Trunk Bay and the White House, and he was formidably prepared. “It stands for High-Performance Instrumented Airborne Platform for Environmental Research. They’re great little jets with suborbital capability, the best of their kind in the world. We usually use them for tracking pollution plumes, or collecting data from the tops of storms, or monitoring the lower edges of the stratosphere. They can attain altitudes most research aircraft can’t—even spend brief periods in space—which makes them ideal for reaching the shroud. They’re easily equipped with the kinds of scoops and intakes necessary for gathering our sample. They fly out of Colorado, and I think it would be a good idea to have them fly with military cover. Joe, what’s the Air Force base in Colorado?”

Sidower squinted as he thought about it. “That would be Peterson,” said the secretary of defense. “And come to think of it, Peterson’s also home to the First Space Wing, so if the HIAPERs need any space support, they’ve got it.”

“Good. Mr. President, I suggest we get our samples first, before you mount any definitive military action.

Let’s get that stuff into the lab and analyze it. Once we have samples safely returned to Earth, you can launch whatever strikes are necessary.”

The president nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” He turned to Sidower. “And Joe, I’m glad we can get Colorado in on this. These Western Secessionist states—this is just the kind of thing they’ll capitalize on.

And it worries me because if things get really bad… they’ve got a real breakaway mentality these past few years, and considering they house some of our largest food-supply depots—anyway, I’m sure you get my drift.”

“We’ll try to make the bastards feel as if they’re helping.”

Julia Petrov spoke up. “I should point out that we’ve received a communications drop from the Moon. It parachuted through the shroud without detection, and the Navy recovered it a thousand miles north of Easter Island yesterday. The mayor’s office in Nectaris says the Moon is mounting its own scientific effort to neutralize the shroud.”

Neil felt some alarm. “The Moon?” he said. “Why’s the Moon getting involved? All they’ve got up there are gambling casinos, strip joints, and cannabis bars.”

The vice president interjected, “They have some top interplanetary-spacecraft design engineers.”

“Yes, but… we don’t want them screwing up our own operations. I’m sure their interference is going to be misguided, to say the least. They don’t have nearly the same expertise we do. Nor do they have the resources we have.” Neil turned to Julia Petrov. “Any idea who’s heading the project?”

“Your brother, as a matter of fact.”

Neil felt his face warming, and was momentarily disconcerted by this odd juxtaposition; poor old Gerry, as a matter of fact, being spoken about in the Oval Office.

“My brother?” He shook his head in disbelief. “With all due respect to my brother…” His usual tact seemed to desert him. “They can’t let Gerry take charge up there. I love him dearly, and he’s brilliant in his own way, but he has an uncanny knack for making wrong decisions, and for taking the wildest kind of risks. Mr. President, you have to get the State Department to talk to this mayor in Nectaris and tell him… tell him…” He raised his palms in consternation. “I urge you to have a midlevel diplomat, or even a senior diplomat, send a drop to this mayor in Nectaris and tell him to… to stand down.”

The president glanced around at his team, hesitant to give an immediate answer.

It was Chief of Staff Gregory who finally spoke. “But Neil, we can’t dictate to the Moon. They have their own sovereignty up there now. And don’t we need all the help we can get?” The chief of staff gestured out the windows behind the president’s desk. “Look at that thing. All we have left is a bit of open sky far to the east. Don’t you think we could use the Moon’s help?”

“Yes, but the Moon can’t help us,” said Neil, now exasperated with the thought of his brother balling up the whole effort. “They have no scientific expertise. Mr. President, if you want, I’ll sign a recommendation against their interference, and we can send it to them in the next drop. Who knows?

They just might end up provoking the Tarsalans. For the sake of their own safety—and ours—we should strongly advise Nectaris and the other CLC communities to butt out. Otherwise I can’t guarantee the success of this thing.”

6

Glenda’s part-time shift ended at one.

She went out to the parking lot and asked her car to take her to the Stedman’s at Rock Quarry Road and Tarboro Street, on the outskirts of Raleigh.

She saw only a few other cars on the highway. For the most part driverless transport trucks plied the route, their lights piercing the green gloom. She looked up at the sky as her car went on its way. Now, at midday, the verdurous murk was brighter, but still… still unnatural, not as dark as night, but darker than the darkest storm clouds. What worried her was the trend. It was getting darker every day. How long before it was completely dark?

She got to Stedman’s and saw that hundreds of cars crowded the parking lot. The big lot lights were on, burning like blue sulfur and, in contrast, the sky looked black. She reluctantly shifted to the driver’s seat and took manual control of the vehicle.

She had to scout fifteen minutes before she finally found a parking spot on a residential street five blocks away. She got out of her car. Not the best neighborhood. Houses were fifty years old, made of preformed Duratex. Most of the Duratex had minute cracks in it. Weeds grew waist-high in some front yards.

She finally reached the Stedman’s parking lot. Not only was it crowded with cars, but with people as well.

Glenda walked to the shopping cart corral and discovered that all the shopping carts were gone. She looked around and saw an elderly couple unloading groceries into the back of their car.

She walked over. “Can I take your cart when you’re through?”

The lady looked at her in sympathy. “We had to do the same thing. It’s like dollar days.”

Once the couple was through unloading, Glenda pushed the cart to the store, only to discover that there was a long lineup to get in. People waited with expressions of grumpy impatience on their faces. She peered to the front, where a pair of armed security guards regulated the flow. She looked in through the big front windows and saw that the lines to all the cashiers were backed up. She sighed. This was going to take forever.

She had to wait forty-five minutes before the security guards finally waved her through.

Inside the store, she immediately sensed that this wasn’t a regular grocery crowd. There was an undercurrent of desperation, even fear.

To maneuver up and down the aisles, she had to wait a minute or two for other people to pass. The shelves were all but empty. Especially of canned goods. She got the last two-kilogram bag of rice. Also a nineteen-ounce can of stewed prunes. And some cat food, even though they didn’t have a cat, but if worse came to worst…

She reached the bottled-water section but there wasn’t any bottled water left. At the meat counter she got some pig’s feet and spiced pork chops, the only things remaining. As for fruit and vegetables, she obtained the last bag of russet apples, two bundles of leeks, a turnip, some garlic, and three onions that were starting to sprout. She wanted cheese because cheese was protein, but there wasn’t any left. She wanted juice because it had vitamins, but the cooler was empty. From the dairy section, she managed to get a jug of soy milk that was leaking. She now felt plugged in to the current of desperation and fear. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the crowd rioted.

She approached a stocking unit and asked the machine when they were going to get more cheese.

“Current delivery date undetermined, pending emergency federal legislation, re: FEMA relief contingencies.”

She grabbed a bag of sugar. A box of salt. Someone had spilled a package of spaghetti all over the floor. She picked up as many strands as she could and stuffed them into a loose plastic bag. She mentally tallied the groceries and knew she had at least a hundred dollars’ worth. Not the two hundred dollars she had hoped for, but maybe it would be better to hold onto the remaining money for emergency backup.

Who knew what was going to happen in the next week or two?

She struggled to the drugstore section of Stedman’s.

As she waited to get Hanna’s prescription filled, hundreds of nervous thoughts rustled through her mind.

Live a day at a time, she kept telling herself. By tomorrow this whole thing could be over. Tomorrow was Saturday. In the bright sunshine, she and her kids would hike to Jordan Lake and have a picnic, and the Tarsalans would compromise, and so would President Bayard, and maybe they might have a few Tarsalans living in Old Hill, and wouldn’t that be fun and interesting for the kids, having aliens living in the neighborhood? So everything would be all right, and she would live a day at a time, like her mother always told her to.

Only she couldn’t stop thinking about how all the plants were going to die. What happened when photo-synthesis stopped worldwide? What happened when every tree, flower, and blade of grass croaked?

She finally got Hanna’s medicine, enough to last her daughter a month, went to a Customer-Assisted Checkout Line, and waited again. That’s when she heard people yelling at the front. Then the smashing of glass. Then gunshots.

She dropped to the ground. So did everybody around her. But then other people came running down the aisle. And these other people were just normal, everyday Raleigh citizens, yet they had wild looks in their eyes and guns in their hands, and two of them came up to her grocery cart and emptied its contents into garbage bags.

“Hey! That’s my stuff!”

“Lady, it’s every man for himself.”

They took everything.

But as they ran away, a hole developed in their bag.

Prunes. Salt. Pork chops. They were hers, but the people in front of her snatched them up. More gunshots. Some screaming. And sirens outside.

At least she still had Hanna’s drugs—and that’s what she had really come for anyway.

Glenda got home halfway through the president’s speech—she didn’t tell the kids about the looting because she didn’t want to upset them—and caught bits and pieces of it as she got supper started in the kitchen.

“The United States and its allies view the shroud as a blatant act of aggression,” Bayard was saying.

“Despite our repeated attempts to open high-level diplomatic channels with the Tarsalan delegation to protest the shroud, all such attempts have failed. The Tarsalans say through their junior staff that until their immigration demands are met the shroud will remain in place. A lot of you have come to the conclusion that, should the shroud block out the light of the sun, it might have a direct and drastic effect, in the short term, on food supply, in particular on our crops next year. This is an unreasonable fear, and I can assure the American people that we have the situation well in hand. In spite of this, some of our citizens feel they must resort to civil disorder.”

Glenda listened more closely.

“We’ve already seen numerous instances of looting. Let me assure you, my fellow Americans, and especially those of you who feel you must participate in this unlawfulness, there’s absolutely no call for criminal activity. I warn you now—looters will be dealt with harshly.” He raised his hands in a calming manner. “I can only say this to people who feel they must loot—everyone will be fed. Our response to this emergency has been quick and appropriate. What have we done? For starters, I’ve asked state governors to mobilize and make ready their various relief agencies. I’ve ordered my chief administrators at FEMA to study the feasibility of implementing contingency rationing plans on a nationwide basis, and have empowered the military to take control of and administer the commercial food-distribution system when and if it is deemed necessary. I’ve asked the National Science Foundation to make a full and complete study of the shroud. If we can dismantle the shroud in any reasonable time frame, my experts in the Department of Agriculture believe we’ll still have our crops next year, and the food pressure will be off. So while we might have to tighten our belts in the short term, I believe in the long term we don’t face any real, serious food shortage. I urge calm, and vow to you that your government, and governments all over the world, are working hard to solve this problem. I urge civic responsibility. I urge you to support your government—and your neighbor—any way you can.”

Bayard gripped both sides of the lectern, and a conciliatory smile came to his face.

“And I especially appeal to those of you who are Secessionist Movement supporters, and I know there are a good many of you. Now is not the time to think of splitting up the country. Now is the time to show solidarity in the face of what is turning into a considerable national emergency. I know that in at least three states, Secessionist referendums have been proposed for the November election period. I would ask that supporters of these referendums put any and all such campaigns on hold for the time being. I would ask that we pull together and beat this thing as fellow countrymen. The color of your vote doesn’t matter. Red or blue, we all have to stand together.”

He let go of the lectern and squared his shoulders.

“In the meantime, the toughest decision your president faces is how to respond to this blatant act of aggression by the Tarsalans. Right from the start, we knew they were asking for immigration rights. They told us that they were a peaceful people and that they desired to conduct senior negotiations with us in regard to the possibility of immigration. This was reasonable. It was practical. And it promised mutual betterment to both our peoples. We in the United States have always understood immigration. We all come from immigrant ancestry. But we also understand that an immigration policy must be managed. It has to be based on common sense and sustainability. We know that to flood our shores with an uncontrolled influx of immigrants would not only be detrimental to the existing inhabitants, but also to the immigrants themselves. So we offered controlled immigration to selected islands in the South Pacific, with strict quotas on reproduction. That’s when we learned their demands were unreasonable. They requested unlimited immigration anywhere in the world, with the right to decide their own birth policies. In the last nine years there have been a series of offers and counteroffers, and still the two sides remain significantly polarized. Now the Tarsalans have withdrawn from negotiations, and have mounted this shroud around the Earth. They’ve given us an ultimatum. Let me make this clear. The United States won’t tolerate ultimatums, and will never give in to blackmail.

“And so I’ve had to make the toughest decision of my presidency. At twelve-thirty p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, today, I put the U.S. military on highest alert. I’ve sent a final message to the Tarsalans.

This message is a counterultimatum. Dismantle the shroud within forty-eight hours or the United States and its allies will bring to bear against the Tarsalan mothership and its other deployed craft the full might of the world’s military forces. So far the Tarsalans haven’t responded. But I think this message has sent to them a firm comprehension of just where we stand. The United States and its allies will not be dictated to. And we will not have our sovereignty challenged. And if they don’t dismantle the shroud, war shall and will be declared.”

By this time Glenda was gripping the edge of the dining room table with white-knuckled hands. Her mouth had gone dry and her palms were moist. Wasn’t it bad enough that they should have the shroud around the Earth? Wouldn’t it make things far worse to go to war with the Tarsalans? Yet she could see the president’s point. They couldn’t let the Tarsalans push them around.

“Mom, are the Tarsalans going to bomb us?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“They probably won’t bomb here,” said Hanna. “Old Hill is the most boring place in the world.”

“I don’t see why we don’t let them live anywhere they want,” said Jake. “It’s a free country. I wouldn’t mind having one for a neighbor. I’ve only ever met Kafis at Uncle Neil’s, and I’d like to meet a few more. I don’t know why the president doesn’t put out the welcome mat.”

“Because they overbreed, stupid. They have four babies at a time.”

“Hanna, don’t call your brother stupid. And we don’t know that they would overbreed. Yes, it’s true they have four babies at a time, but everything I’ve read says they’ve really embraced birth control.”

“But Mom,” said Hanna, “they can tell us anything they want about what they do back on their homeworld, and we have no way of checking it out. I talked to Uncle Neil about it last Christmas. He says we can’t verify anything about the way they do things on their homeworld, and that if we open the door to them, we could find ourselves in real trouble.”

Glenda looked out the window at the shroud. “I think we’re in real trouble already.”

7

Gerry met with Mayor Hulke, Ian Hamilton, Dr. Luke Langstrom, and a fourth man, Mitchell Bennett, the appointed representative of AviOrbit, a day later. Mitch was a man roughly his own age, but he wore a suit. Gerry had his baggy old corduroys on. Mitch’s hair was short, a tawny red shaved as closely as a layer of felt. Gerry became conscious of his own straying, long hair. Mitch maneuvered with feminine grace through the Moon’s weak gravity while Gerry lumbered about like an out-of-control giant.

Malcolm Hulke held the document of contention in his hands, downloaded from Earth’s latest drop. His jaw tightened and he scratched behind his ear, where Gerry saw an angry red patch of psoriasis. The mayor finished scanning the document a third time, then glanced at Gerry, puzzled.

“I don’t understand why they would send this to AviOrbit’s office, not mine.”

“Neil’s trying to undercut your authority,” said Gerry. “It’s his way of playing politics.”

“Why doesn’t he want our help? You’d think we could offer a unique perspective up here on the Moon.

And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility they just might fail. Wouldn’t they want us as backup?”

“Considering my brother has the full resources of the United States at his disposal,” said Gerry, “odds are he’s going to come up with something sooner rather than later.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Hulke. “What if he tries one thing, then another, then another, and none of them work? Why doesn’t he want our help?” Hulke was obviously hurt by Neil’s signed recommendation. “This whole section here—about working at cross-purposes—do you think he has a point? And Gerry, this bit about your qualifications. Or lack of them, as he puts it. That’s not nice. Have you always had this…this thing with him? How can he say you have no qualifications?”

“I’m sure Dr. Thorndike is an excellent judge of qualifications,” said Langstrom. “And I’m sure he knows his brother better than any of us.”

Gerry glanced at the Martian sourly. “Neil’s always been nervous about the way I do things.”

“One thing you ought to know about Neil,” said Ian. “He likes to steal the show. I say we don’t even answer this. We’ve got our own sovereignty up here. It’s not as if they own the shroud. If we go along with this ridiculous request to… to stand down, we might blow our own chances of getting rid of the thing.

Why don’t we just say that the Moon is Plan B? In my experience, Plan B is the one that always works.”

He took off his hat, a rawhide outdoorsman’s hat, smoothed his shoulder-length hair, and bunched his lips, looking ready to spit. “I’ve known Neil and Gerry since…since a long time ago. We grew up in suburban Illinois together. At first I was best friends with Neil. I admired the hell out of the guy. He got good grades, and when it came time for college, he was accepted into the best of them on a full scholarship. But he’s overconfident, and that’s going to be his downfall. Then you take a guy like Gerry.

He hasn’t had the most stunning career. And he’s flat broke most of the time. But Gerry looks at something, and he sees things other people don’t. Gerry’s got more patience in his baby finger than Neil has in his whole body. Have you ever had some kind of problem, and no matter how hard you puzzle on it, you can’t come up with an answer? So you put it aside at the end of the day, then go to bed, and right when you’re falling asleep you find a solution? That’s the way Gerry’s mind works all the time. Gerry is Plan B, and I’m telling you, Plan B is the one that’s going to work.”

“I don’t think we should sell Dr. Thorndike short so quickly,” said Langstrom. “He’s won the Nobel Prize, after all. And, no offense, Gerry, you haven’t.”

“Prizes don’t mean a thing,” said Ian.

“They’re a way of recognizing excellent work,” said Dr. Langstrom.

“Not when it comes to Neil and Gerry.”

“I think your bias is showing, Mr. Hamilton,” said Langstrom.

“Let me give you an example,” said Ian, leaning across the table toward the elderly Martian. “When we were kids, the three of us got stranded in Chicago. Neil immediately came up with a plan to panhandle money so we could buy bus tickets home. He took charge of the operation and we had the money in no time. But then, at the last minute, he got us on the wrong bus. I remember what he was like that day. He was so confident. But then he screwed up. We traveled all the way to the other end of Chicago before we figured out what he’d done. Who comes to the rescue? Gerry. He logs on to his laptop and determines we can connect with a southbound train if we change buses at a transfer point a few blocks ahead. We didn’t even have to pay an extra fare. Plan B. Gerry rarely overlooks anything.”

“Considering Neil Thorndike has a position as a special advisor to the president,” said Langstrom, “I doubt he overlooks much either.”

“Yes, but this document we have,” said Ian, tapping the mayor’s waferscreen. “It’s nothing but Neil trying to take over like he always does. He’s not even willing to consider that the Moon might have something to offer. I say we decide against him.”

“Getting stranded in Chicago and having to raise bus money thirty years ago is one thing, but this is quite another. I should think Dr. Thorndike’s come a long way since then.”

The group fell silent. Gerry watched the mayor glance at the waferscreen a fourth time. Hulke’s face again took on an expression of puzzlement. He looked up from the document and inspected Gerry the way he might an unpredictable dog. What was Gerry going to do next? Was he going to roll over? Was he going to play dead? Was he going to shake a paw?

“Gerry,” said the mayor, “the decision’s yours. You’re the head of this thing. If you think we should pull out… I mean, if you think you and your brother will be working at… cross-purposes…”

“I can understand some of what he’s saying. They might use an agent against the shroud, but then we might go ahead and use a different agent, and the two might cancel out, or combine in some unexpected and dangerous way. But until we know exactly where Neil’s research is going—until the NSF communicates that to us—I think it would be foolhardy to stand down. As for this thing about my qualifications… I haven’t been a complete failure. I’ve had some small successes in oceanic research. I’m recognized as North Carolina’s number-one hydrographer. And I’ve always believed in myself as a scientist.” He motioned at the waferscreen. “No matter what anybody else says.”

“If that’s your decision,” said the mayor, his brow rising.

“I just don’t think we should stop when all we’ve got is a bunch of ifs, maybes, and mights. I believe we should go ahead and see what we can find out about this damn thing. At least for the next little while.”

The way to go was small. Gerry knew no other way. But as he rode the sky elevator to AviOrbit’s launch platform, he couldn’t help noting the misgivings on the mayor’s face. Mitchell Bennett, of AviOrbit, kept staring down at the Moon—which was now forty miles below—as if he, too, were embarrassed by the Smallmouth. Gerry inspected the probe one more time, and now he also had his doubts.

About three times the size of a bleach bottle, and roughly the same shape, its outer shell was matte black

and composed of the most advanced stealth alloy AviOrbit had in stock. Airfoils jutted on either side.

The instrument module, something he was extremely proud of, rode at the front, a payload of standard and advanced electronics that he’d ingeniously linked to some nifty software Mitch had helped him develop. Proton microthrusters—really braking thrusters from bigger craft—provided the primary means of propulsion and navigation. At the back…well…nothing more than a crude nuclear bomb, the thrust device for when the Smallmouth had to escape Earth’s gravity well and return to the Moon.

“Why did you call it Smallmouth?” asked the mayor. “Other than the fact that it has a small mouth. I mean, no complaints. I like weird names, but I…” The mayor trailed off, all his doubt implied.

“In a lot of ways, the probe is going to act like a smallmouth bass,” said Gerry, now feeling self-conscious about the name. “It’s going to putter about like a smallmouth bass in a bunch of weeds, conduct its experiments, and then come back with its sample. I fish in Jordan Lake for bass, that’s why.”

“It’s just that… I don’t know… it doesn’t seem like much of a spacecraft.” The mayor turned to Mitch.

“Mitch, maybe we should have tried something bigger.”

“Trust me, it’s going to work,” said Gerry. “You know what I like about it? It’s simple. It’s cheap. And I think Mitch and his team did a great job.”

“I hope it comes back,” said Mitch, giving the probe a reluctant glance.

“The NSF already has their sample,” said Hulke. “We got the drop this morning. They still want us to butt out.”

“There’s no harm in us taking our own look,” said Gerry. “No one’s going to notice the Smallmouth. Especially not the Tarsalans.”

“Your brother sent three special atmospheric aircraft with Air Force cover. Apparently there were some casualties, but they didn’t say how many.”

Gerry turned his attention to the Smallmouth. “At least no one’s going to get hurt if this probe goes down.”

The sky elevator continued to rise until it was fifty miles above the lunar surface. At this altitude, Gerry saw the curve of the Moon, and the vast panorama of the moonscape below. The terminator cut a dark line over the surface, but beyond it craters, ejecta patterns, mountains, and plains came into sharp relief, lit by the sun.

The sky elevator at last came to the launch platform, and the doors opened on a large hangar area with a huge polycarbonate pressure door at the far end. Through this pressure door Gerry saw stars in the blackest sky he had ever seen. Was this black sky what the shroud looked like from Earth? he wondered. Had the green gotten so dark it was now black?

Technicians took charge of the Smallmouth, wheeling it away.

Gerry, the mayor, and Mitch found their way to the observation tower, where they saw the entire launch facility spread out below. Several interplanetary craft lay floating in orbit, tethered to workbays that were themselves linked to the platform by flexible pneumatic lifts. The launch facility, shaped like a kidney, measured two square miles, and had a number of hydralike extensions at the ends—tethers that were currently empty. The sun hit the facility with bristling light, but the yellow-tinted visor of Gerry’s pressure suit blunted its brightness. He felt queasy because of the weightlessness, but not overtly so. Immediately below him he saw the small-components launch area. It was here that the Smallmouth would begin its voyage.

The technical crew wheeled the probe along magnetic rails to Platform 5. Once there, they unlatched the Smallmouth from its dolly and connected it to release hooks. They backed the dolly away and disappeared into a nearby hangar.

The countdown began, and when it was finished the probe puttered slowly upward, traveling at no more than a few miles per hour, at last disappearing out of sight as it angled into the transit orbit that would take it to Earth.

Gerry glanced at Hulke. “We have liftoff.”

Hulke sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”