Jack McDevitt - The Moonfall

Luke had invested well, so money wasn't a problem. He played pinochle Wednesdays, and attended a great books club on the second Monday of the month. (They were reading Marcus Aurelius for the May meeting.) He played golf two or three days a week, as the mood hit him; and he usually ate lunch with a few guys from the Rotary. The Lunch Bunch, they called themselves.

He still got lonely. He missed Ann, and most days the house was quieter than he liked. But he'd adjusted reasonably well. She wouldn't have stood for his moping around and feeling sorry for himself, and he did what he could to follow the advice she'd written on the last birthday card she'd sent him, to treat life like an overripe grapefruit, and get all the juice out of it he could.

So he watched the TV reports with interest and a little trepidation. (Fear was part of the grapefruit, too.) But the ocean looked reassuringly calm and flat. Pennsylvania Turnpike, northwest of Philadelphia. 7:33 P.M.

The traffic, which had moved sporadically for three hours, had now stopped altogether. State police channels reported that the turnpike was a parking lot all the way out to Valley Forge.

The convoy had long since dissolved. Archie could see four company trucks strung out behind him. The rest were gone, swallowed somewhere in the crush.

"Claire," he asked, "do you know what the justification was for building the interstate highway system?"

She had no idea.

"Eisenhower said he wanted to be able to move troops quickly from one place to another. In case of invasion."

She looked around at the gridlock and smiled. "There were fewer cars then."

Pickups, station wagons, vans, all were loaded with cartons and blankets and kids. Furniture was piled on top. Lamps stuck out windows, and trunk lids were tied down atop chairs. Archie had been in the Caucasus during peacekeeping operations, when local strongmen had tried to eliminate minority ethnic groups and the Turks hadn't cooperated in the rescue. He remembered people on the roads, headed south and east, away from the killing zones. There had been a lot of cars, and the roads were decent. Not the Pennsylvania Turnpike, certainly. But there was something in this automotive crush that reminded him of those frightened multitudes.

Something.

Maybe the kids huddled in the back seats; and scared drivers getting out to push stalled cars off the road; and even occasional gunfire. In the Caucasus it had been snipers posted along the highways. Here he didn't know what it was.

Ahead, a blinker rotated slowly on a cruiser, but the cops were as helpless as everybody else.

Old cars were overheating or running out of gas. Electrics were exhausting their batteries. The Pine River trucks had been charged before leaving the plant. But even they would not get through the night.

"How you doing, Claire?"

She shrugged. They were inching past an off-ramp. It was. loaded with vehicles trying to exit. There was an extra lane of traffic along the shoulder, but it wasn't moving either.

He'd tried several times to reach Susan on his cell phone. But the circuits must have been jammed and he couldn't get through. The roads were probably bad everywhere. He thought about her trying to navigate I-287 around New York, and regretted having encouraged her to go. "These people are crazy," he said finally.

She grinned. "We're out here with them."

"Yeah. But we're being paid."

Excerpt from an interview at the WXPI-TV studios in Richmond, Virginia, with "Colonel" Steve Gallagher, Commander, Thomas Jefferson Legion. Singer: Colonel, why does Virginia need a militia? Gallagher: We all know the answer to that question, Molly. Some of us don't want to face up to the truth, and some of us are in bed with the traitors at the top. But we all know. Singer: Why don't you tell us? Gallagher: The Legion is all that stands between oppressive government and the people. If the federals are ever successful in putting us down, you and the other people out there might just as well put on your leg irons. Singer: So you really think there's a wide-ranging plot to enslave the American people? Gallagher: You can joke about it all you want, you and the rest of the liberal media, you've always been up front, egging these traitors on and hiding the truth. But when you turn the country over to them, they'll swallow you whole too. Just like the rest of us. Singer: Who precisely are we talking about? Gallagher: Start with Kolladner. Singer: What's he done? Gallagher: Government without representation, Molly. Open your eyes. It's the same reason we fought the first revolution. Look, it's not really about individuals. It's about the machinery of government. It's about a system that allows people like Kolladner to get their hands on the levers, that tries to hold down the rest of us. Singer: We have the vote. Gallagher: Who do you get to vote for? Usually you can choose between two puppets. Molly, Molly, most men and women are born to be slaves. We both know that. At any given time on the planet, there are only a few who can truly be said to be free. The others, the great mass of your audience for example, are enslaved because they believe what they're told by their schools and their churches. By society, and particularly by shows like this. These are all corrupt institutions with a stake in ensuring correct behavior. Maintain order, that's what you want, isn't it? So you can keep your two-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year job. You were born to be a slave, Molly. You've got some ability and you've sold out. Your job is to see that anyone who thinks for himself gets isolated, banished to the fringes, and rendered impotent. Richmond, WXPI Studios. 8:36 P.M.

Tad Wickett and the colonel's younger brother Jack were waiting for him in the lobby. "How'd it look?" Steve asked.

"You were damned good, Steve," said Jack. "Maybe we can wake some of these people up."

Tad nodded. "You put the bitch down real good, Colonel."

Steve stood for a moment, not moving, looking back the way he'd come as if they might call him for an encore. "She deserves to be put down a lot harder," he said. "It's people like that who are the problem. They cover for the sons of bitches who are draining this country dry. I can't believe she doesn't know she's being used."

"Whether she does or not," said Tad, "she's in the way. Why don't we just put her out of business? Teach the rest of them a lesson."

Jack felt a chill. He didn't like Wickett. Twice in Jack's experience he'd almost gone off the road trying to run down dogs. He was an ex-Marine who talked a lot about eliminating people. You couldn't tell whether he meant it or not. The colonel laughed whenever Jack voiced his fears. Don't worry about Tad. He only does what I tell him to. And we need people like him. Day's going to come…

"What did you have in mind?" asked Steve, who was far too smart to use violence except as a last resort. Still, he knew that dismissing suggestions peremptorily was poor leadership technique.

"Take out the station," said Tad. Jack could see he relished the prospect. "You know how at the end of the show she always says, This is Molly saying goodnight and good fortune? Let her get the line in and then blow her and the station to hell. Right on cue."

The colonel grinned. Tad claimed to have killed several people in military service, and everybody knew he'd finished Scratchy Ellsworth in a fight last year. Police screwed up the investigation or Tad would be in jail now.

"I don't think we need to do that yet," Steve said. "But in time, Tad, we'll get around to Molly Singer."

"This is Governor Adcock, speaking to you from the state capital at Harrisburg. I want to urge you to stay in your homes. I understand your concern about the Tomiko Comet, but I remind you that the Moon is a quarter-million miles away, and everything else is speculation.