“Well, thirty years is a long time,” Woods said, wanting to be quick with his follow-up. “I’d assume that with, ah, modern technologies we won’t have to worry too much about the lights going out nowadays.”

“Unfortunately, it’s just the opposite. In the nineteen-seventies power companies hadn’t really computerized their operations. Very few computers were used by private or government offices. The Internet didn’t exist. There were no PCs. No public wireless-telephone networks. But society’s become dependent on sophisticated electronics over the past three decades. It’s integral to our economy. Our national security. While some equipment’s been shielded against high-level discharges of cosmic radiation, we can find plenty of room for improvement. As a NASA employee I’m concerned about the sensitive equipment on our orbital platforms, and more fundamentally about the exposure of astronauts aboard the International Space Station to harmful dosages of radiation. I’ve also wondered about the vulnerability of satellite communications linking us to the more remote parts of the globe. Parts of the Far East, for example. Or the poles . . .”

Where the polar bears would have to make do without their fucking cell phones and downloadable porn, Woods thought. Christ Almighty. This guy was going to start a mass panic if he went on with his horseshit about cosmic rays.

“It sounds as if you’re scripting a Doomsday scenario, which of course isn’t the case,” he said. “We should pause to reassure everyone that there’s little risk of solar flames producing the whole range of disturbances you mention—”

“Flares!” The director yowled again. “They’re called flares!”

Woods was getting aggravated. If Bennett wanted to be such a goddamn stickler for terminology, he could come out of the control room and finish the interview himself.

“By the way,” Woods said. “Aren’t solar flares accompanied by flames?”

Frye looked a bit thrown by the seeming non sequitur. “Well, sure, they’d be associated with eruptions of flaming gases in the heliosphere—”

“Thanks for making that clear, Dr. Frye,” he said.

“And fuck you for being a spiteful prick, Mr. Woods,” Bennett said out of sight.

“Returning to the point I raised a moment ago,” Woods said. “Is it fair to state that you gentlemen don’t, foresee any, uh—”

He faltered, unable to think of the word. This happened to him sometimes. Mostly when he was doing the science stuff, which was another reason he despised it. The word just got stuck in traffic somewhere between his brain and mouth. Goddamn. Goddamn. Where was Bennett when you needed him, why was he letting him dangle here, what the hell was the word . . . ?

“Catastrophes, you spiteful, unappreciative prick,” Bennett said.

Woods fought back a sigh of relief.

“Catastrophes over the horizon,” he resumed, “but are rather just sketching out the problems that should be addressed as our knowledge of flares increases? Giving us some, uh . . .”

“Cautionary advice,” Bennett said.

“Cautionary advice, that is?”