"There was a central Atlantic fireball sighted by a cargo ship four days ago. Like the previous object, as far as we can discover, nobody picked it up on radar coming in. Similar phenomenon—-deep-ocean splash, small storm, and peculiar seismic traces. This fireball was much brighter, though—blinding, huge, leaving a glowing tail behind it. Captain and crew were treated for retinal burns. The doctors treating them noticed hair loss and strange bruises and questioned them, and they admitted to having bloody stools. Everyone on deck is suffering from severe radiation exposure."

"Meteors don't do that," Kemp said. "And then . . . we have records of another seismic event in the same area as the cargo ship. Burrowing," he added triumphantly. "Trace like a bomb explosion. And then . . . microseisms and deep P-waves."

Samshow raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"More nodal traces," Sand said, "and even stronger microseismic activity . . . This was either a bigger object, more massive, or . . ."

"It's different," Kemp said. "Don't ask me how."

"They're talking about a Kemp object downstairs," Samshow said. "Far be it from me to worry about attribution—"

"We'll straighten that out at the symposium tomorrow morning," Kemp said. "Gordon will attend, and everything we know will be laid before the convention."

"And the public?"

"Nobody's told us to keep it secret," Sand said.

"There are camera crews downstairs."

"We can't hold this back," Kemp said.

"Can't we wait until it's confirmed?"

"That could be months," Sand said. "We may not have the time."

Samshow frowned deeply. "Two things bother me," he said. "Besides this god-awful noise. One." He held up a single finger. "How in hell can any of this theorizing do us any good? And two." A second finger. "Everybody here seems to be having such a fine time."

Sand glanced at the others. Post appeared suddenly crestfallen.

"The gods are dancing on our grave," Samshow said, "and here we are, like kids in a toy store."

Chapter 35

35

Reuben Bordes stood by the screen door, staring out at the cold rain washing the streets of Warren, half smiling and half frowning. His lips moved slowly to some inner song, and his eyes longed for something far away.

"Close the door, boy," his father demanded, standing in the hallway, dressed in ragged pajamas. "It's cold outside."

"All right, Pop." He swung the door closed and turned to watch his father settle into his easy chair. "Can I bring you anything?"

"I've eaten lunch, and I've had my nap, and I've been a lazy s.o.b. all day. Why should you bring me anything?" His father looked at him through rheumy, exhausted eyes. He was still crying at night, still sleeping with his arms wrapped around a pillow. Reuben had seen him in the morning, fast asleep, his face wreathed in empty bliss, his dead wife's thick feather pillow clutched firmly to him under the scattered blankets.

"Just asking," Reuben said.

"I'd invite them to meet my mum. My mother. "

But she's dead.