She was not like that. She refused to accept it. Her response had been an extreme stress effect, nothing more. Like the voice. Extreme stress, that was all.

There was traffic now, in this unhurt part of the country, and the familiar rhythm of the road enabled her to drive faster. She tuned the radio, seeking news. Instead she heard music, oldies that reminded her of her unfinished youth, and the sorrows of her uncaressed body. Angrily, she jabbed the scan button—and heard, just briefly, a snatch of talk that almost made her jam on the brakes. She turned up the volume. “They’re saying it’s over the Marina District right now.” Then static. Frantically, she twisted the dial. It was a late-night talk show of the type that featured ghosts, UFOs, and such. The Marina District was in San Francisco. “It’s huge,” the voice continued, “we can’t see it anymore, but it’s out there—” Then static. Then back again. “—huge aerials—”

So what was this? Where was it from? Huge aerials—could it be similar to the thing that had appeared over Big Basin in 2007? If so, the situation had just gone from urgent to desperate.

Outside, the night of stars swept on.

She waited, but nothing more came through on the radio except news of the storm and the usual lineup of music stations. The little local talker was now out of range, and she couldn’t find the show elsewhere on the dial. So she continued on to the Altoona–Blair County Airport, and as soon as she walked through the small terminal, she was relieved to see her Gulfstream on the apron, lit and ready, its engines humming softly. This, at least, had gone right.

She crossed the tarmac to the plane, moving through the silence and emptiness of a regional airport in the small hours of the morning.

They’d posted a guard, an air policeman in a letter-perfect uniform, who watched impassively as she approached. He looked so dubious that she said, “I’m the guy you’re waiting for.”

“You’re Mr. Lyndon?”

“I guess.” She showed him her credential and he stepped aside. She climbed the steps into the Spartan interior of the air force transport and took a seat toward the front. Some of these planes were laid out for general officers. This one was not, so she was treated to seats that were just a cut above commercial economy. Fine, she’d enjoy less sleep and therefore fewer nightmares. Normally, to get through a night, she needed to chemically lobotomize herself with antianxiety medications and sleeping pills. She hadn’t brought any of that, so sleep would be impossible, anyway.