"We don't have that kind of defense," Crockerman said hoarsely, barely audible. He fixed his eyes on Schwartz. Schwartz thought he looked two days dead at least, eyes pale and lifeless. The vote to impeach had taken the last bit of starch from him. Tomorrow would be—would have been—the beginning of the Senate trial on whether he would stay in office or be removed.

"Correct, sir."

"It's not the Russians," observed one of the Secret Service agents, a tall black Kentuckian of middle years.

"Not the Russians," Crockerman repeated, his face taking on some color now. "Who, then?"

"The planet-eaters," Schwartz said.

"It's begun?" the young Marine lieutenant asked, gripping the briefcase as if to keep it from flying away.

"God only knows," Schwartz said, shaking his head.

The MODACC beeped and the staff officer listened intently over his sound-insulated headphones. "Mr. President, it's Premier Arbatov in Moscow."

Crockerman stared once again at Schwartz for a long moment before reaching for the mike and headphones. Schwartz knew what the stare meant. He's still the Man, damn us all to hell.

Chapter 64

64

Arthur drove the car into the driveway of Grant and Danielle's hillside home in Richmond just before midnight. He was still shaken; the memory of the network's pain and loss lingered like a bizarre, bitter-sharp taste on the tongue. He sat with hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead at the rough wood garage door, and then turned to Francine.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I think so." He glanced over the seat at Marty. The boy sprawled on the back seat, eyes closed, his head lolling slightly over the edge, mouth open.

"Thank God he's asleep," Francine said. "You gave us both a scare."

"I gave you a scare?" Arthur asked, his weariness breaking down before a sudden upwelling of anger. "Jesus, if you could have felt what I felt—"

"Please," Francine said, face deadly grim. "We're here. There's Grant now."

She opened the car door and stepped out. Arthur stayed in the seat, confused, then closed his eyes for a moment, tentatively searching for the network, trying to learn what had happened. There had been little on the radio beyond repeated reports of some unknown disaster in Seattle; it had been less than an hour.

He half expected the superpowers to stumble into nuclear war; perhaps members of the network were preventing that even now. But he had to go on faith. For the moment, he was cut loose from the circuit of network communications.

Arthur took a murmuring Marty into his arms. Grant showed them to a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and a folding cot. Danielle—now asleep, Grant said—had made up the beds and laid out towels for them, as well as putting a late night snack of fruit and soup on the kitchen counter. Francine tucked Marty into the cot and joined Grant and Arthur in the kitchen.

"Have you heard what happened?" she asked Grant.