Soaked to the bone, bruised and cut, he’d been sifting through the sodden remains of his clothes closet when, incredibly, a vehicle had come bouncing and growling down the street, a military-issue Hummer with Air Police markings on it. The man who had got out of it wore a wet sweater, a bicycle helmet, and an ancient pair of jeans shorts. On his hip there was what appeared to be an antique holster that contained an equally old Colt navy revolver.

He came hurrying up into the remains of the house and said, “Mr. Hammond, I’m Ives, Secret Service. You’re needed at the White House.”

After a slow journey across a city in confusion, George entered the Oval Office for just the second time in his life. The first had been a decoration ceremony for a friend who had died in Tibet under classified circumstances.

He recognized CIA director Dick Lamson and the others present, the director of Homeland Security and the secretary of defense. And, of course, the president. If he had expected a level of decorum, he forgot it immediately when the president addressed Lamson.

“So, Dick, this is your cave snake.” The president gave George the kind of look you might get from a mugger in a dark alley in Calcutta. “You could have warned us, you stupid prick.”

They brought him quickly up-to-date about San Francisco, and he was so appalled that his chest started to hurt bad enough for him to worry about a heart attack.

“Okay,” the president said at last, “what do we do now? What’s your evaluation?”

“We need to get to Gina Lyndon.”

Dick Lamson snapped, “She’s out of contact. Whereabouts unknown. What we do know is that she and Turner both took planes to San Francisco. Turner’s landed a few hours before all hell broke loose there. Hers, we don’t know. It didn’t land at Travis.”

The president gazed out into the tattered ruins of the Rose Garden. “I have never felt more helpless in my life. Jesus Christ, here you are the expert and not even the CIA director knew what you did.” In three long steps, the president was face-to-face with George. “I’ve never liked executions. Some poor dumb sonembitch, every damn time. But you, my friend, you I would like to see shot.”

“Sir, we thought they were aliens. We thought there was a chance to gain some kind of an alliance.”

Secretary Arthur spoke. “You mean to tell me you didn’t even know what was going on? And your own man was involved?”

George could only mutter, “We were deceived. And if you’re referring to Dr. Turner, he’s with DARPA, not us.”

“So what is happening? What do you know now?”

“When the Senate killed the Hybrid Project, basically Turner continued it under some other budget. Technology we had gained from contact with aliens was used.”