Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

Louise was one of Larry's colleagues, an economist at Kraus amp; Cole. Marilyn had socialized with her on a few occasions. She was twice divorced, a woman who claimed to have thrown out both husbands, although Larry said it had been the other way around. She was the unofficial office social director, putting together pot luck lunches, bowling teams, and mass trips to dinner theaters. "Sure," she said. "Let's do it."

The world seemed to have returned almost to normal. Late-night comics were doing comet jokes, and a TV preacher had announced that Tomiko had been headed originally for Alabama until he'd prayed it away. Political pundits were analyzing its effect on the fall campaign. (Most thought it would hurt Haskell's chances, despite what they perceived as his adroit grandstanding, because of the national investment in Moonbase, which was now irrevocably lost.) The Yankees, who were at home this weekend against the Tigers, announced that if the Saturday night game had not yet been completed by ten thirty-five, the time of impact, they would call a delay to proceedings and put the celestial show on the replay screens. The Moon would be in the west, not visible to the fans other than those in the right-field seats. Some fans objected, and suggested that management could put the show on the screen, but that was no reason to hold up the game.

Marilyn's third-floor apartment looked out across Central Park. Everything seemed as it always did: A couple of kids were trying to fly a kite while their mothers looked on, joggers moved along the pathways, and the usual number of people occupied benches. Panhandlers were working pedestrians, and the streets were filled with taxis, buses, and delivery trucks. The schools were open, and Wal-Mart had announced a big comet sale. ("Get your tail down here while the savings last.")

Shadow of the Betrayer struck her as one of the less imaginative murder mysteries to arrive on her desk. The killer was transparently visible from about Chapter Three, and only marginally motivated. The red herrings were all quite plainly red herrings. The pacing was off, the characters were dull. The narrative had a breakneck quality out of keeping with what should have been an atmospheric mystery. The reader never had time to stop and think about implications. And the novelist himself seemed to have missed several opportunities to create real drama. It was as though he'd been double-parked.

Unable to concentrate, she opened the balcony door and stepped outside. It wasn't much of a balcony, just big enough to accommodate two chairs and a small table. She stood for a while, leaning against the concrete rail, watching three men move furniture from a rented truck into the apartment building next door. San Francisco. 1:20 P.M. Pacific Daylight Time (4:20 EDT).

Everybody in the third-floor office of Bennett amp; McGee was staring at the TV. It was a split screen. A map of the Bay Area filled one side, from Richmond in the north to Santa Clara and the Los Altos Hills in the south, from the Pacific over to I680, encompassing more than eleven hundred square kilometers. An image of the comet's head, somewhat longish and irregular, cratered and torn, occupied the other. One huge crater took up about a fifth of the comet's visible surface. While Jerry watched, the outline of the Bay Area was superimposed over the comet nucleus. Then it was reduced until San Francisco and environs fit neatly into the big crater. A legend blinked on at the bottom of the screen: ACTUAL SIZE.

In a voice-over, Senator Mark Caswell was speaking with PugetWeb anchor Jane McMurtrie.

"… impeachment," he was saying. "It's absolutely unthinkable that a president of the United States would downplay this kind of threat. I think you'll see an appropriate congressional response in the near future."

"But Senator," said McMurtrie, "isn't that really an idle threat? I mean, if there's substance to the charge that the information is vital to the nation's survival, the damage is pretty much done. The rocks will fall and there won't be a Congress Monday. If, on the other hand, he's simply trying to control the alarmists, which is to say, if nothing happens, what will the charge be? I mean, he'll have been right, won't he?"

"Not at all, Jane. We don't intend to let Mr. Kolladner play fast and loose with the safety of the people of this nation. And I can assure you that when this is over, there will be a Congress, and there will be a United States. And there'll be a reckoning."

Half the staff had called in sick. They'd had to man the trouble desk with people from the equity branch. Manny's Coffeehouse across the street, where Jerry usually stopped to have toast and read the Chronicle, had been closed this morning. A sign on the window read: BACK MONDAY.

Jerry and Marisa had spent the previous evening with friends, exchanging quips about people they knew who were leaving town. They'd laughed a lot, but the general uneasiness had been noticeable.

His division head was Leo Gold, who'd been with the firm when the wagon trains came west. Leo's hair was snow white, and he had a voice like an electric saw. He was a model-train enthusiast. He called Jerry into his office. "Can you work tomorrow?" he asked without preamble.

Tomorrow was Saturday. It was the Saturday before April 15, which was a busy time for accounting firms. But Bennett amp; McGee had always prided itself on its ability to get the job done without having to go into crash mode during the tax season. No one below the level of general manager had ever worked the Saturday before the tax deadline. It was a matter of pride.

"But not this year," explained Leo. "All these people taking off the last couple of days, Jerry. It's put us in a bind."

Ordinarily, Jerry wouldn't have thought twice. But he knew Marisa was nervous about the comet. There was a possibility she'd want to leave, get out of its way, and they wouldn't be able to do that if he were committed to coming into work. "I was planning on a weekend out of town," he said.

Leo pressed his lips together. "Jerry." He canted his head. "Jerry, you're not serious."

How can you be so naive, Jerry? "It's not the comet, Leo," Jerry hastened to explain. "This trip's been planned for several weeks. We're going to see my wife's sister Helen."

"Jerry, we're all going to be here Monday. San Francisco will be here. Bennett amp; McGee will be here. And I need not tell you what date Monday is."

April fifteenth. It occurred to Jerry that if the worst predictions played out, the last official act of the United States government might be its annual mugging of its citizens. "You have a bright future with the firm," Leo went on. "Don't jeopardize it over…" He seemed at a loss for words, and settled for drawing a circle in the air with his right index finger.

In the end Jerry agreed, not because he feared for his career. Rather, Leo's demeanor made him feel he had to prove he wasn't afraid of the comet.

Point Judith, Rhode Island. 7:21 P.M.

Luke Peterson was a retired printer. His wife was twenty years dead, and his kids were scattered around the country. He owned a spacious brick home in Point Judith, with a lovely view of the sea. He had wide lawns and a paved driveway and plenty of room for his grandchildren, who loved the place and arrived in flocks every summer. He'd come to the ocean when he lost his wife, bought the property for $110,000. Now it was worth three-quarters of a million, and he wouldn't have been able to afford to keep it except that he was over seventy and there was a special provision in the tax law to protect homeowners against runaway real estate values. He'd run the print shop out of it for ten years, had published commercial and tourist flyers, and done various custom jobs, business cards, stationery, whatever. It'd been a nice living, but he'd gotten bored with it. Life was too short to spend in a print shop, and when he was able to close it, he did.