Ritva’s eyes went up too. The flat roof above would be either the platform for escape, or the last place she would ever see.

“Tolo a nin,” Astrid said. “Gwaenc!”

Ritva translated. “Come with me. Let’s go!”

Martin Thurston looked up as he rode through Boise’s gate. The signal heliograph on the northwesternmost of the four towers was snapping, repeating a message as a request for clarification. The gathering clouds made it dim, thunderheads towering from black bases up to cream-white and then turned crimson by the westering sun. Something within him would have noticed the beauty of it once, if only in passing.

Nothing is nothing nothing now. Bits and bits that flake off and spin down and down and nothing is nothing and that is very good.

The signal was faint, not enough sunlight striking the mirrors, but then someone touched off the limelight. High above, hydrogen and oxygen and wood alcohol sprayed out of nozzles onto a stick of pure quicklime. A few seconds, and the light blinked brightly again. Martin frowned. He knew Morse as well as he read English, and the message was being sent in the clear; the identification number was a relay station well north of the city. And . . .

“Blimp?” someone said. “There aren’t any blimps.”

“There is the Curtis LeMay,” Martin said.

“But that flying white elephant and all its gear were decommissioned and broken up and sold for scrap after Wendell!”

“Perhaps not,” Thurston said.

He could feel things moving in his mind. Like fish under water, or worms in earth. Some part of him was astonished at the detached curiosity of the other part as it considered the sensation.

“Things were confused just then. Paperwork could have been misfiled by traitors within our ranks. Message, maximum priority, all weapons emplacements on wall and citadel. Fire on the blimp. Incendiary rounds authorized. Category A mission rules of engagement, execute immediately.”

Another man grunted. Category A meant ignore collateral damage.

A panting messenger approached, letting his bicycle fall. A Natpol, wheezing and red faced. Shields blocked his way as he bent over, holding himself and gasping.

“Sir!” he shouted, over the ten yards. “Sir, we have a situation!”

“Let him through,” Martin said.

They did, though two pila-points touched the back of his neck. By then he had his breath back, a little.

“Mr. President, there’s an incident at Aladdin’s Emporium. Sir, your wife was . . . is there, with your son and mother and sisters. Sir, it’s enemy specops forces and Mormon terrorists. They appear to have hostages, sir. Your family.”