O'Malley nodded. "Nobody's got much of an appetite just now."

Doug saw Gordette standing a few paces away. "Bam, when's the last time you took a break?"

"I'm okay," Gordette said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Go grab a bite to eat," Doug ordered. "While there's still time."

"I'm okay," Gordette repeated stolidly.

"That's the nuke?" O'Malley asked, pointing to the screen on Doug's console.

That's it."

"How soon?"

"Should hit in twenty-five minutes or less."

"What's Wicksen waiting for?"

"He knows what he's doing," said Doug, wishing he felt as confident as he was trying to sound.

Then the overhead lights, always dim inside the control center, went off altogether. The display screens wavered and faded, hundreds of electronic eyes blinking, then steadied. A low moaning gasp echoed through the rock-walled chamber. "It's okay!" Doug yelled. "Wicksen's powering up the beam gun. We expected this. The auxiliary power system's cut in.

Still he felt the cold hand of fear clutching his innards.

"Power's up to ninety percent," said the physicist.

Wicksen, bending over the makeshift control board inside the buried emergency shelter, saw a swathe of green lights interspersed with a handful of yellows. No reds, he told himself. So far, so good.

"Power to max," he said quietly.

There was no whine of generators spinning up, no vibration from powerful machinery. Just the low background hum of electrical gadgetry in the cramped, round-ceilinged little shelter. The five of them had taken off their helmets; there'd been no time to get out of the suits entirely. Nor any inclination to do so.

Two red lights suddenly glowered at Wicksen. "Main buss has cut out," he said, tension edging into his voice.

"On it," said the only woman among his assistants. I'll have to run a diagnostic."

"No time. Go to the backup."

"Right."

The red lights remained, but a new pair of greens lit up. Wicksen glanced at the countdown clock: fourteen minutes remaining until impact.

"How's the pointing system?" he asked.

"It's tracking okay. Hardly any movement, the bird's coming right down our throats."

"Makes life simpler," Wicksen murmured.

"Magnets are at full power."

He nodded, blew out a breath through puffed cheeks, then leaned his right index finger on the firing button.

A multitude of red lights sprang up on the board.

"What the hell?"

"Main buss shorted out!" the woman shouted. "Backup's malfunctioned!"

Wicksen swore under his breath. Murphy's law. Turning toward her, he saw that her face look agonized.

"What's the problem?" he asked calmly. Twelve minutes to impact.

"I don't know," she said, voice jittery, as she stared at the instruments in front of her.

Three minutes later Wicksen had satisfied himself that the main buss itself was functioning properly.

"It's the wiring," he said, reaching for his helmet. "The connections must have come loose."

"That can't be!" said the man who had done the wiring job.

"Can't be anything else," said Wicksen simply, as he pulled his helmet over his head.