The lights went down, and the presentation began with a highly magnified image of the meteor recorded on videotape earlier in the afternoon. Everyone leaned closer and began talking in hushed tones of surprise and fearful anticipation. There were loud gasps from some around the table as many came to grips for the first time with the magnitude and the true horror of what was approaching the West Coast at that moment. Somehow these closeup pictures of a massive object hurtling through space, looking more like the sun than their previous image of a meteor, brought home the terror of the situation.

Next, Eisenblatt showed them a composite of videotape and still photographs of the tragedy that had been unfolding on the ground in Los Angeles over the past twelve hours. They witnessed the panic, the hysteria, the effects of the heat, thousands of bodies being processed by medical and emergency teams wearing specialized heat-resistant gear, and helicopter footage of freeways and highways clogged with vehicles.

They saw the bodies of dead children, houses and entire neighborhoods on fire, and the wrenching transmissions from an affiliate station in the northern suburbs of Los Angeles, KTTV, which showed some of the most moving pictures of the real-life drama unfolding on the streets of that doomed city.

Ten minutes into the video presentation, the president’s hands began to quiver. He suddenly put a hand over his mouth as if he were about to vomit. He coughed, wiped sweat from his forehead, then noisily shoved back his chair and bolted from the room.

Dr. Eisenblatt stopped the presentation in deference to the president and took questions from around the table while the group waited for the chief executive to return. But, safely inside his private bathroom, Ted Rust was vomiting uncontrollably. He was terror-stricken by the terrible images he had just witnessed and the realization that he was powerless to help in this moment of crisis. What he wanted most to do was to escape, to scream out, or to run as fast and as far as he could go. Instead, he pulled out the flask of bourbon he had hidden inside his suit jacket before he got off the plane and poured himself three fingers in a wide-bottomed glass. After a quick glance at his ghostly profile in the mirror, he downed the whole glass neat.

He leaned against the sink, shivering, until the whisky began to work, then he poured an equal amount and gulped it down too. Despite his practiced tolerance for alcohol, which had been built up over many years of hard drinking, the president’s empty stomach was no match for what hit it. Slowly, he braced himself, straightened his tie, and took one more slug straight from the flask for good measure.

The president was clearly staggering when he reentered the Cabinet Room. Seeing the situation, one of the executive staff switched on the lights, but it didn’t help. Rust pulled back his chair, tried to sit down, but missed the seat and fell with an absurd gurgle to the floor. His aides rushed over to pick him up, but he slapped at their hands and pushed them away.