"But look at the big picture," he murmured to himself, not caring whether anybody else heard. "This is history."

"This is history!” Minelli yelled from his cell. "We're history! Isn't everybody thrilled?"

Edward heard Reslaw clapping slowly, resolutely.

"I want to see my agent," Minelli said.

Chapter 10

10

Harry looked over the President's itinerary—and their own, neatly appended with a plastic clip—and sighed. "The big time," he said. "You're used to it. I'm not. Stifling security and appointments timed by the minute."

"I've grown accustomed to being away from it," Arthur said. They shared a room in the Vandenberg Hilton, as the blocky, elongated, three-story concrete officer's quarters had been dubbed by the shuttle pilots who generally occupied the austere rooms. Harry handed him the paper and shrugged.

"Mostly, I'm just tired," he said, lying back and clasping his hands behind his neck. Arthur regarded him with some worry. "No, not because I'm ill," Harry said testily. "It's all this thinking. Coming to grips."

"Tomorrow's going to be very busy. Are you sure you're up to it?" Arthur asked.

"I'm sure."

"All right. Tonight we brief the President and whichever members of his staff and Cabinet he's brought along, and then sit in on the President's interviews with the Guest and the citizens."

Harry grinned and shook his head, still dubious.

Arthur put the papers down on the table between their beds. "What will he do when he hears the story?"

"Christ, Art, you know the man better than I."

"I never even met him before I was canned. When he was Veep, he stayed in the background. To me, he's a riddle wrapped in an enigma. You read the papers; what do you think?"

"I think he's a reasonably intelligent man who doesn't belong in the White House. But then, I'm a radical from way back. I was a communist when I was three years old, remember. My father put me in red sweaters—"

"I'm serious. We have to soften the blow for him. And it will be a blow, however much he's prepared by his staff. Seeing our Guest. Hearing from its own lips, or whatever . . ."

"That Earth is doomed. Lambs to the slaughter."

It was Arthur's turn to grin. The grin almost hurt. "No," he said.

"You don't believe it?"

Arthur stared up at the ceiling. "Don't you feel something's not right here?"

"Doom is never right," Harry said.

"Questions. Lots and lots of questions. Why does this spacecraft allow 'fleas' to ride on its back and warn the populace before it can destroy their home?"

"Smugness. Absolute assurance of power. Assurance of our weakness."

"When we have nuclear weapons, for Christ's sake?" Arthur asked sharply. "A fighter pilot down in some jungle should show respect for the natives' arrows."

"It probably—it should have weapons and defenses we know nothing about."

"Why hasn't it used them?"

"Obviously, it used something to land huge rocks without being detected by radar or satellites."