Arthur did not know quite how she was taking his revelation, until, in the morning, he overheard her talking to Marty in the kitchen. He had just finished a thorough check of the family station wagon and was wiping his hands on a paper towel before passing through the swinging door.

"Dad's going to have a lot of work to do soon," Francine said. Arthur paused behind the door, crumpled towel in one hand, his jaw working.

"Can he stay with us?" Marty asked.

He could not see them, but he could tell that Francine was by the sink, facing the center of the kitchen, where the boy stood. "What he's doing is important," she said, not answering Marty's question. She didn't know the answer.

"He's not working for the President now. He told me."

"Right," Francine said.

"I wish he could stay home."

"So do I."

"Is he going someplace without us?"

"I don't understand what you're asking, Marty."

"Is he going to leave us here when the Earth blows up?"

Arthur closed his eyes. The towel was a tight ball in his fist.

"He's not leaving us anywhere. He's just . . . working."

"Why work when everything's going to stop?"

"Everybody has to work. We don't know everything's going to stop. Besides, he's working so that maybe it won't . . . stop." The catch in her voice made him raise his head to keep the tears from dropping down his cheek.

"Mr. Perkins says there isn't much we can do."

"Mr. Perkins should stick to arithmetic," Francine said sharply.

"Is Dad ascared?"

"Afraid."

"Yeah, but is he?"

"No more than I am," she said.

"What can he do to stop things?"

"Time for us to take you to school now. Where's your father?"

"Mo-ommm! Can he?"

"He's working with . . . some people. They think maybe they can do something."

"I'll tell Mr. Perkins."

"Don't tell Mr. Perkins anything, Marty. Please."

Arthur stepped back a few feet to make a noise, came through the door, and dropped the thoroughly wadded towel into the trash bag under the sink. Marty stared at him with wide eyes, lips pressed together and sucked inward.

"Everybody ready?"

They nodded.

"Have you been crying, Daddy?" Marty asked.

Arthur said nothing, simply staring between them.

"We're a team, aren't we, honey?" Francine said, hugging him and gesturing for Marty to come. The boy was not of an age to be enthusiastic about physical affection, but he came and Arthur knelt, one arm around Francine's waist, one arm wrapped around his son.

"We sure are," he said.

What he received, in the way of messages, was a peculiar shorthand unlike anything he had ever experienced before. The flow of information came as truncated visuals, bits of spoken conversations (sometimes delivered by separate and identifiable voices, sometimes monotoned or not auditory at all), and as often as not, simply as memories. He could not remember receiving the memories, but they were there, and they informed his planning and action.