Before she had a chance to respond, his office began filling up with people. He found himself facing Dick Lamson, his CIA director and old friend; Lewis Stern, Homeland Security; Secretary of Defense Arthur; plus the Secretary of the Air Force and half the Joint Chiefs.

He said, “We’d better take this to the Cabinet Room.” On the way, he asked, “What happened, somebody get hit with a rectal probe?” That was in the alien-abduction lore, he remembered it from South Park. Nobody said a word in response.

In the Cabinet Room, Dan Arthur began to speak. Vice President Wilson and Secretary of State Adams both appeared, more uniforms behind them.

“Mr. President, we have an unusual situation in San Francisco,” Dan said. “There is this—Carlie, could you get some imagery, please?”

She got the monitor turned on and there flitted up onto the screen an image of what Richard Crawford thought at once was an odd thing and—almost by instinct—sensed was a bad thing. Certainly, it was no flying saucer, this huge mass of machinery floating in the sky.

The image rotated. “We’re scouting it with a Predator, sir,” Secretary of the Air Force Hollis said. “That’s what you’re seeing.”

The object was hanging over Telegraph Hill, looking like some sort of space debris, all angles and strange shapes. Below it, the president could see the Coit Tower. He could see down into Polk Gulch. He thought wistfully of the Swan Oyster Depot. God, he loved San Francisco. Presidential life is grand, but it is also claustrophobic.

He tried to concentrate on the thing they were showing him, which was made up of all sorts of girders and big metal plates, with tall antennae reaching into the sky.

“Well, it’s weird. But I thought, ah, aren’t they more hubcappy, flying saucers?” His mind began to return to the storm. “Where’s FEMA? FEMA should be giving me reports and I don’t have a thing.”

“The city is in chaos.” This was General Stuart, General of the Army. Not exactly smart, not exactly dumb. An operator.

“Of course it is, we just got hit by the goddamn storm of the century! Look, I want FEMA in here, goddamnit! Excuse my French.” Crawford hated the idea of leaving foulmouthed Nixon tapes behind. That was not going to happen to him, goddamnit, despite that he hadn’t learned to talk until he was a God-fucking damn marine.

“It’s not Washington. Washington is coping. It’s Frisco.”

Crawford looked again at the screen. So, the dopers and the gays were panicking. “No surprise there, people. Not even Frisco is bizarre enough to handle something like that. It’d scare me shitless, if I was there. To be sure.” He looked to his CIA director. “What is that thing, Dick?”

“Sir, it’s a long, complex story. We’re dealing with a rogue scientist here. We believe that—”