‘Ed, these are terrible times. We’re all taking risks. They took theirs.’

‘You really believe that?’ Ed asked her. ‘All those people wanted to do was live their lives out in peace and order. That’s all. They didn’t want drama, or pain, or death in a strange city. They simply wanted to see the sun rise and set over Kansas for a few more years. That’s what I hate about this famine. It’s killing us all, but it won’t let us die in the America we’re used to. It wouldn’t even let me die on South Burlington Farm.’

‘You don’t want to die, not on South Burlington Farm, nor anywhere. Think of Season and Sally. Think of me.’ Ed looked at her, in her open plaid shirt, and her grubby white jeans. The pump-gun was still tucked down beside the passenger seat and the door. Her red hair was drawn back from her face with a green ribbon.

‘You?’ he asked her.

She nodded. ‘Even if you’ve got nothing else at all, you’ve still got me.’

*

As the sun went down on Sunday evening, the President was lying propped up in bed, papers strewn all over his gold-coloured quilt, looking bloodless and tired, Sitting astride one of the bedroom chairs beside him was his National Security Adviser Louis Krupner, a sharp-faced man with an equally sharp manner. By the window, diffident and quiet, soberly dressed in a dark suit, stood Charles Kurnik, Director of the FBI.

‘What I need is conclusive evidence,’ the President was saying, while his thin hand picked at the braiding on his quilt. ‘Until I have conclusive, irrefutable evidence, I can’t possibly order any kind of retaliation.’

Charles Kurnik said, ‘I don’t see who else could have done it. No other country has the motive, the organisational capabilities, or the finance. Think what the whole operation must have cost. Infiltrating canning plants, sabotaging grain elevators, spreading Vorar-D over every major farm between here and California.’

‘Still a whole lot cheaper than the cheapest armed conflict,’ said Louis Krupner, without taking his eyes off the President.

The President rubbed his eyes. ‘Charles,’ he said, ‘would you mind pulling that drape across the window? This sunlight’s getting in my eyes.’

Charles Kurnik did as he was told. Then he stood with his hands together, like a small boy about to give a recitation.

‘Mr President,’ he intoned, ‘unless we strike now, and unless we strike quickly, we’re going to be nothing more than a sitting target. As it is, I don’t think we can sustain hundred per cent national security for more than a few hours longer.’