He entered the Vandenberg isolation laboratory accompanied by two Secret Service agents, his national security advisor—a thin, middle-aged Boston gentleman named Carl McClennan—and his science advisor, David Rotterjack, soporifically calm and thirty-eight years of age. Arthur knew the tall, plump blond-haired Rotterjack well enough to respect his credentials without necessarily liking the man. Rotterjack had tended toward science administration, rather than doing science, in his days as director of several private biological research laboratories.

This entourage was ushered into the combination laboratory and viewing room by General Paul Fulton, Commander in Chief of Shuttle Launch Center 6, West Coast Shuttle Launch Operations. Fulton, fifty-three, had been a football player in his academy days, and still carried substantial muscle on his six-foot frame.

Arthur and Harry awaited them in the central laboratory, standing by the Guest's covered window. Rotter jack introduced the President and McClennan to Harry and Arthur, and then introductions were made in a circle around the chairs. Crockerman and Rotter jack sat in the front row, with Harry and Arthur standing to one side.

"I hope you understand why I'm nervous," Crocker-man said, concentrating on Arthur. "I haven't been hearing good things about this place."

"Yes, sir," Arthur said.

"These stories . . . these statements about what the Guest has been saying . . . Do you believe them?"

"We see no reason not to believe them, sir," Arthur said. Harry nodded.

"You, Mr. Feinman, what do you think of the Australian bogey?"

"From what I've seen, Mr. President, it appears to be an almost exact analog of our own. Perhaps larger, because it's contained within a larger rock."

"But we haven't the foggiest notion what's in either of the rocks, do we?"

"No, sir," Harry said.

"Can't X-ray them, or set off blasts nearby and listen on the other side?"

Rotterjack grinned. "We've been discussing a number of sneaky ways to learn what's inside. None of them seem appropriate."

Arthur felt a twinge, but nodded. "I think discretion is best now."

"What about the robots, the conflicting stories? Some folks in my generation are calling them 'shmoos,' did you know that, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Feinman?"

"The name occurred to us, sir."

"Bringers of everything good. That's what they've been telling Prime Minister Miller. I've spoken to him. He's not necessarily convinced, or at least he doesn't let us think he is, but ... he saw no reason to keep everybody in the dark. It's a different situation here, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Arthur said.

McClennan cleared his throat. "We can't predict what kind of harm might come if we tell the world we have a bogey, and it says doomsday is here."

"Carl takes a dim view of any plans to release the story. So we have four civilians locked up, and we have agents in Shoshone and Furnace Creek, and the rock is off limits."

"The civilians are locked up for other reasons," Arthur said. "We haven't found any evidence of biological contamination, but we can't afford to take chances."