Текст книги "The Coming"

Автор книги: Joe William Haldeman

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Her jaw actually dropped; sharp intake of breath. "Did you record it? I'll be right over." She folded up the phone and put it away. "That was Norman, at the office. There's a new message from the aliens. A long one."

They left three coffees steaming on the bar.

Norman

He thumbed in a blank crystal and made another copy, for safety's sake. Then he sat and read the message on the wall:

We will arrive on Earth exactly one month from now, landing at Cape Kennedy 1200 Greenwich Standard Time on January 1. We will use the old shuttle landing strip. Please make sure it is clear and smooth.

We have a message that must be delivered in person. Recognizing the need for some ceremony, we will stay for a short time. Soon after landing, though, the runway must be clear for our departure. The nature of our message will make it clear why timing is crucial.

If we are delayed, your planet will be destroyed.

If any action is taken against us, every human being on Earth will die, whether we survive or not.

Our intentions are peaceful, but we know your nature well enough not to come unprotected. We will provide a small demonstration of our power as we approach, by destroying the mar-tian moon Phobos. Be sure that there is nothing of value on that moon by Christmas.

We do come in peace, and we bring a message of hope.

Norman grinned. The third partita would be Christmas hymns, combining and then clashing, building to chaos and silence.

He would write the fourth partita after he heard what they had to say. If composer and audience were still alive.

Rory came bustling in with Deedee and Pepe, all of them drenched. They stared at the message, wordless. The phone chimed, over and over. Someone important, or the secretary would just file a message.

Still looking at the writing on the wall, Rory groped behind her and found the chair at her desk. She sat down slowly and pushed a button. "Buenos."

"I don't know how you did it." President LaSalle's face on the screen was blotchy, livid. "But it's not going to work. We will have those weapons in orbit in a week."

"Ms. President," Rory said, "I just saw this message one minute ago for the first time. I assume it did come from the spaceship?"

"That's what the NASA people say. But the timing is too perfect. I don't know how you did it, but you did it. And it's not going to work."

"Why don't you ask your NASA people how I could manage that trick?" she said slowly. "I assume they picked it up on the Moon as well as here. So by simple triangulation, you can tell how far the message has come. It was probably sent before we began to talk."

"Impossible," the president said, and disappeared.

"Pepe, go check on the Moon?" The phone started chiming again. Rory shook her head and stabbed the button.

It was Marya Washington, her face distorted and bouncing around the screen. "Rory, I'm in a cab to JFK. The station's putting me on their own plane; I'll be down in Gainesville"—she looked at the inside of her wrist—"in maybe ninety minutes. Can we have lunch?"

"Uh ... sure. We have a lot to talk about."

"That Mexican place on Main Street? At twelve o'clock?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Good. Mas tarde." The screen went blank.

"What the hell was that all about?" Norman said. "The prez?"

"That's what our meeting was about. She wants to orbit those killer satellites. The secretary of defense's idea, I take it. But all the cabinet's behind it, except Pauling."

Norman let out a little snort. "I guess this means we won't be invading France. Just frying it."

Pepe was mopping his long hair with a paper towel. "Surely she'll reconsider after she calms down." He gestured at the screen. "Or wiser heads may prevail."

"Wiser heads better get her out of office," Deedee said. "The woman is seriously bent. She sees everything in terms of conspiracy."

"Yeah," Norman said. "Poor old Brattle."

"Who's Brattle?" Rory said. Everybody looked at her.

"Undersecretary of defense," Norman said. To the others: "She doesn't listen to the news."

"She had him charged with sedition," Deedee said. "Sedition! 'Moderation' is more like it. But he's being investigated by a closed committee. Essentially under house arrest."

"Well, she can house-arrest me." Rory smiled at Norman. "At least I have a good cook. She's going to be terminally pissed off after I talk to Marya."

"Don't do that," Pepe said. "You mustn't do that. Not yet."

"Somebody has to stop her."

"Somebody will. In Washington."

"You sound pretty confident. For someone who's usually nothing but sarcastic about government."

"Just give it a day or two, and see what happens. If you violate the president's trust, you'll be out of the game completely. And you probably willgo to jail somewhere."

"I think he's right," Norm said. "Where there's a loose cannon on deck, you want to be belowdecks."

"So what do I tell Marya? I left her a message that we were conferencing with La Presidente this morning."

"Just tell the truth," Pepe said. "That important matters were discussed, but you were sworn to secrecy."

Rory shook her head. "We're talking about the survival of the whole human race, versus my going to jail."

"Just give it one day," Pepe said. "See what Washington does. If they conceal it, hell, you'll give Marya even more of a story."

"I think he's right," Deedee said. "Another couple of days won't make a big difference. Stay out of jail and hold on to your professorship. That's my strategy."

Norm nodded at the screen. "You'll have plenty to talk about. I mean, now it really isan invasion from outer space."

"I'll do something useful," Pepe said, "besides checking the Moon. See whether we can calculate how big a boom it would take to blow up Phobos."

"It's just a little pebble, isn't it?" Norm said.

"Compared to a planet," Rory said. "About twenty kilometers in diameter?"

"You're asking me?" Pepe said. "I'm not a planet guy. But that's twice as big as Mount Everest is tall. Think about a bomb that could level Mount Everest. Then multiply it by eight; two-cubed."

"Considerable bang," Rory said. "Interesting that they chose the larger one. If memory serves, Diemos is only half its size."

"I'll go see if I can find Leo." Leo Matzlach was their Mars expert. "Maybe I can get you a number before launch."

"That would be good," Rory said. "Anything concrete. We're not exactly in a data-rich environment."

Running out, Pepe almost collided with the chancellor.

Malachi Barrett

"Sorry." He dodged the young man, then walked into the office and exchanged greetings.

"Dr. Bell," he said to Norman, "I have to speak with your wife and Dr. Whittier in private."

"No problem." Norm got up and stretched. "Guess our lunch date's off, anyhow."

"Unless you want to be interviewed," Rory said.

"No; think I'll go home and play." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the wallscreen. "That gives me an idea." To Mai: "Stopped raining?"

"For a while." He brushed a few drops from his shoulder.

"Try to beat it home." Norm scooped up his bicycle helmet and left.

"This changes things." Mai dropped heavily into the chair Norm had vacated. "A direct threat."

"Her Nibs called right after the message came," Deedee said. "She thinks it's a fake, and Rory's behind it."

"Well?" Mai said.

"Well what?" Rory said. "Is it a fake?"

Mai shrugged. "Tell me it's not."

"Mai ... okay, you've got me. It's a fake. But since it came from beyond the solar system, I had to send the message beforewe met with La Presidente. So I'm not only a traitor, I'm a fucking clairvoyant!"

Mai raised a hand. "Okay, sorry. I hadn't thought of that."

"You're one step ahead of Fearless Leader," Rory said. "She not only didn't think of it, she doesn't believeit. I don't think they covered that speed-of-light stuff at her finishing school."

"So you think she's going to go ahead with orbiting those weapons?"

"Seems likely. She has a testosterone problem. And she has the backing to push it through."

"They would probably work, though, wouldn't they?"

"What, the weapons?"

"Yes. I mean, there are thousands of satellites up there. Surely the aliens couldn't tell that three of them were weapons."

Rory paused. "Maybe they couldn't, especially if the weapons were disguised as other kinds of satellites. Though their positioning would be suggestive, suspicious." She rubbed her still-damp hair. "Besides, suppose there's more than one alien vessel? They seem to know a bit about human nature. Maybe they know us well enough to send a decoy first."

"Which could be behind the Phobos demonstration, too," Dee-dee said. "If it isan actual invasion, they may be sending a decoy in to provoke us and test our resources."

"Well, if it is an invasion, we can save our H-bombs. They can stand back a ways and throw rocks at us, at .99c."

"Another thing the president seems not to believe," Mai said. His own background was in psychology and sociology, but he knew enough science to grasp that.

"And she doesn't want to listen to the one person who keeps telling her the truth," Deedee said. "Poor Pauling. He'll be out on the sidewalk before long."

"Replaced by her astrologer," Mai said.

"She has an astrologer?"Rory said, wide-eyed.

Mai shrugged. "Might be tabloid nonsense. Maybe she does chicken entrails instead."

"So what do yourchicken entrails say?" Deedee said. "Rory's talking with Marya Washington at noon. We've been telling her to keep it under her hat, at least for the time being."

"I would, too. The president was unambiguous about that. Top secret,' she said. Though I'm certain she's about to reveal it herself. Maybe not until after the launch."

"She thinks these aliens aren't watching our broadcasts?"

"She doesn't think very far beyond the nearest camera lens, and this morning's gallup numbers. And she knows the people are going to eat this up."

"The people," Deedee said. "The only thing wrong with democracy."

The phone chimed and Rory thumbed it. It was the departmental secretary, looking strained. "Dr. Bell, I'm sorry to interrupt. But I have calls stacked up from all over the world. If we could schedule a press conference ... "

"Okay, let's say fourteen hundred. Do you have Marya Washington's phone number?"

"Right here."

"She'll be landing here in a half hour or so, I guess with a small crew. Call her first, set up a time and place, and then contact everyone else."

"Okay, will do." The screen went blank.

"You always play favorites like this?" Mai asked.

"I guess I do. She's well informed and fair."

"She probably doesn't have a quarter the market share of CNN."

"I should care? The news gets out." The phone chimed and the screen flashed intradepartmental. She pushed it.

Pepe: "Okay, I called the Moon and they confirmed. And the choice of Phobos is no mystery. It's cracked. There's a crater, Stuckney, that's a third the size of the moon itself, and it damn near blew the thing apart. Fractures radiate away from it; you just have to shoot a bomb down into there, and finish Mother Nature's job for her."

"So how big a bomb?"

Pepe shrugged. "Pick a number. Leo guessed a hundred thousand megatons. Give or take a factor of a thousand."

Rory laughed. "Well, that's precise enough. A hundred million megatons it is. Thank Leo for me—you want to come to this interview?"

"No; God, no. Earthshaking stress isn't in my job description."

Pepe

" Buenos." He pushed the "on/off" button on the pay phone and looked around the library. This was as good a place as any to wait for the news to break.

News. He hadn't been keeping up. He sat down at a console and called up The New York Times,and toggled back a couple of days.

That must have been when the president first got a hair up her ass about the orbital weapons. She was evidently a pawn, or a rook anyhow, in the current Defense Department power struggle—a schism between those who wanted to ally with Germany and Russia, and the isolationist/pacifist/Francophile set, who wanted us to sit back and watch.

If we stayed out of it, France and her allies would prevail; the eastern coalition was about to spin apart into impotent factions. But with our killer satellites always within a few minutes of Paris and Lyons, coupled with a commander-in-chief who was pro-East and prone to dramatic gestures, Paris had to stop and think: We could be vaporized.

Washington was thinking, as well. Not talking yet, waiting for the White House's lead.

It was like watching an ant colony scurry around, oblivious to the larger world around them. The Defense Department seized on the threat of the Coming to justify "weapons of mass destruction" in orbit. Thinking that when the alien hoax petered out, the weapons would still be up there. Pointed down, at Paris and her allies.

One microsecond blast from them, and Paris would be a postmodern Troy. There was a great city once, under the rubble and ash.

He knew it wasn't going to happen. The Defense Department might have a lunatic at the top, appointed by a fellow lunatic, but that was not going to last.

Poor Brattle. He was not even a liberal, but he was on talkshows and the gallup preps, talking about how futile and dangerous it would be to mount a campaign against these aliens: "If they come in peace, fine. If they come spoiling for a fight, we can't match their high-tech weapons. But we can resist them on the ground. They'll find we don't make good slaves."

Brattle was an intelligent man, but he was too straight and plain-spoken to be undersecretary of defense. He was obviously under fire—under arrest!—because he had stood up to the president and his boss over the satellite scheme.

Pepe knew they wouldn't get three to orbit, and surely the president and her cabinet did, too. The maser weapon only existed as one demonstration model, and it would take a half-trillion dollars, and a lot of luck, to put three in orbit before the New Year. But even the demo could destroy Paris, and the other two could be dummies.

All of them pointed toward Earth.

"Hello, stranger." It was his girlfriend, Lisa Marie. "You've been awfully busy lately."

He liked her a lot, pretty and dark and quick, but he had been easing away from her, knowing he'd have to leave soon. "Yeah. Aliens this, aliens that."

Lisa Marie

"You still have to eat, though." She watched him carefully. "It's almost lunchtime."

He looked at his watch and hesitated. "Sure. You mind going to Dos Hermanos?"

"Love it. I'll buy you a taco."

He laughed, picking up his umbrella and book bag. "Where I come from, that would be an indecent proposition."

She knew that. "First things first, guapo."

She was glad for the light rain, holding on to his arm and huddling together under the umbrella as they walked across campus. He told her about the unsettling new message.

"Was the wording strange? I mean, did it sound like it was written by a human being?"

He put on a strange accent. "We come in peace, Earth beings. Lay down your weapons and take off your clothes."

She copied it: "And climb please into these pots of hot water. Bring vegetables."

He shook his head, smiling. "They may fry us. But I don't think it will be to eat us."

"You really think we're in danger?" They stopped at a fenced-in pond and watched an alligator watching them.

"Maybe not so much from them." He looked thoughtful and chose his words carefully. "Our own response might put us in danger, though. LaSalle is such a dim bulb, and she's not exactly surrounded by geniuses. Then we have the Islamic Jihad and the Eastern Bloc. Any one of them could try to knock the aliens out of orbit. Or nuke them when they land at Kennedy."

"There's a pleasant thought."

"Yeah—if LaSalle says she's going to stay home and send the vice-president, I'm out of here. I don't want to be a hundred and sixty kilometers from ground zero."

"I've got a car," she said seriously. "The trunk's already full of food and jugs of water." She shook her head. "And a gun and ammunition. My father brought it all down a couple of weeks ago. 'Better safe than sorry,' he said. I don't think beans and rice and bullets are the answer."

"But you do keep them in your trunk."

"Yeah, but like you, I'm not so much afraid of the aliens. What I'm afraid of is gangbanging and looting. Like back in twenty-eight, all the grocery stores in flames."

"You weren't alive in twenty-eight."

"Born in 2030. But my parents would never shut up about it."

The air in Dos Hermanos was warm and heavy with spicy cooking smells. It was early, but they got the last table. Pepe waved to his boss and a black woman who looked familiar.

Something in his manner worried Lisa Marie. He seemed to be studying every customer in the cafe as they were led to their table and seated. Looking for aliens, maybe.

"Is something wrong?" he said.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. Just the message, though?"

"Yeah, just. I wonder how many people here haven't seen it." He pointed to the cube over the bar, which showed the message on a flatscreen with a commentator being earnest in front of it. You couldn't quite read the words or tell what he was saying, over the cafe hum.

She glanced at the menu but didn't really read it; she'd eaten here a hundred times.

"It's early," she said, "but you want to split a bottle of wine? Celebrate your aliens?"

He shook his head. "Like to, but it's going to be a busy day." The waitress who came up was the owner of the place. " Buenos dias," he said.

Sara

" Buenos. Your aliens are at it again."

"Why does everybody call them 'my' aliens? They're Rory's aliens."

She looked over at their table. "Her newsie didn't waste any time getting down here. She called in a lunch reservation from her corporate jet, la-di-da."

"Sure glad I'm an overpaid academic," Pepe said, "and don't have to flit around the world at somebody else's beck and call." He ordered chicken fajitas with a double espresso and milk. His girlfriend, Lisa what's-her-name, got a Cuban sandwich and half carafe of white wine.

She was headed back to Jose with the orders when she heard the shrill emergency whistle from the cube. "¡Silencio!"she shouted. "Everybody shut up a minute." She cut her eyes to the cube and saw the unthinkable.

It was a long shot of the White House. One end of it was rubble, gray smoke and orange flames.

"We don't know what's happened," a tight, panicky voice said. "One minute ago, something ... some explosion ... we don't know!"

His image appeared in the corner, the normally unflappable Carl Lamb. "Word just coming in." He put his hand flat against his left ear.

"Oh, my God. The president is dead. Most of her cabinet, too. The vice-president, he, he's ... he was in another room but he's badly hurt. There's an ambulance floater—there; there, you can see it." On the cube, a white floater overshot the flames, spun around, and settled down behind the smoke.

"All the Secret Service can say is it didn't come from outside. It was a powerful bomb that went off in the cabinet room.

"It was an emergency meeting, called about the aliens, the new message. What the Secret Service wonders is how could anybody know they'd all be in that room at that time?"

She sat down in the nearest empty chair, which was Rory's table. "The aliens ... they couldn't've done this?"

Aurora

"I don't ... No. No, of course not." Though it was certainly handy for them. She looked over at Pepe, the only other person here who knewhow handy. He was looking at her.

A young man ran outside to vomit, falling to his knees on the sidewalk. Rory's own stomach twisted. Her head felt full of light, as if she were going to faint. Still staring at the screen, she reached across the table at the same time Marya did. Her grip was firm and dry but she was trembling.

"This couldn't be a movie or something?" Sara said. "This can't be happening."

Marya gulped. "A War of the Worldsthing, Orson Welles? They wouldn't do it, they couldn't."

Rory could only shake her head. She tried to say something but her mouth and throat were suddenly dry. She took a sip of water and it was like glue. Was she going into shock?

"Jesus," Marya croaked. Her dark skin was gray, bloodless. "It's like a palace coup. Who's left?"

Her phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse, listened for a moment, and said, "Okay." She put it back. "They want me to stay here," she said quietly.

There was a murmur of conversation. Two or three people were sobbing.

"Wait," the commentator said. "There is what? There is a message. Our station, many stations, received it right after the tragedy."

He looked off-camera and nodded, openmouthed. "This is Grayson Pauling, President LaSalle's, the late president's, science adviser."

Pauling looked tired and miserable. "Good morning. I have a grave duty today, which must be explained.

"It has been obvious for many months that our president is mentally ill, profoundly so. It has been a source of amusement in Washington, and a weakness for the brokers of power to exploit.

"The union has survived mentally ill and incompetent leaders, and it might have survived Carlie LaSalle, but for the Coming. Especially in light of this morning's message.

"Ms. LaSalle, with the very active cooperation of the secretary of defense, proposes to orbit killer weapons that will supposedly destroy the aliens before they have a chance to land. This would be suicide, genocide ... there is no word for it. The destruction of our entire species.

"She does not truly understand the amount of power these aliens have demonstrated. To the extent that she does understand, she sees it as a challenge to her own power. It is not. It's just a statement of fact."

He looked down and sighed, and then looked into the camera again. "When I was a young man, I was a military officer. Often I had to order men and women into action, knowing that some of them would die. I often went along with them, and the possibility of my own death—sometimes what I saw as the certainty of my death—was of no consequence, compared to the responsibility I felt for them. The guilt, perhaps.

"So today I'm going to die, and in the process, sacrifice the lives of many people who didn't even know there was a war. I'm sorry. My sorrow is no comfort to those of you who are going to lose loved ones. But we'll all be dead in one month if I do not do this.

"When I turn off the camera and set the delay on this message, I will leave for an emergency cabinet meeting set for noon. In my briefcase, I have twelve pounds of C-9, a powerful plastic explosive. When I am in the cabinet room with the president and the secretary of defense, I will open the briefcase and we will all die, as well as others, who are innocent bystanders. Collateral casualties, as they say.

"I have always liked Carlie LaSalle, in spite of her craziness, perhaps because of it, and now I am repaying her trust with murder. History will vindicate me, or at least admit the necessity for this, but that gives me no satisfaction this morning." He reached out of the cube and turned off the camera.

Rory found her voice. "What happens now?"

Marya shook her head. "Pray the vice-president survives. The speaker of the House makes Carlie LaSalle look like a Phi Beta Kappa."

"Who would've thought it," Sara said in a stunned whisper. "Here in America."

"Yeah, America. I wouldn't've predicted LaSalle, either." Rory shook her head. "Washington's a zoo." Carl Lamb was back on the cube, saying that the vice-president was being rushed to Walter Reed, but was not expected to live.

"It makes a kind of sense," Marya said, rubbing her chin hard. "I mean story sense. Grayson Pauling always was a wild card. You know he was DDT in Desert Wind?"

"No," Rory said, staring at the cube. "What's DDT?"

"It's a unit of the Special Forces they call 'Department of Dirty Tricks.' Unconventional warfare; I forget its actual name. He never talked about it; claimed he wasn't allowed to. But that may be how he knew how to build a bomb he could carry into the White House."

As if to back her up, the cube showed a gray positron scan of the briefcase. "Even cabinet members are checked when they enter the White House," Carl Lamb said. "Grayson Pauling appeared to have nothing but books and papers."

A security guard came into the cube, the side of his head bandaged, blood drops on his tunic. "Maybe we shoulda wondered about those books. Why would someone carry big books into a cabinet meeting?"

Lamb made reassuring noises. "His mind was made up this morning," Rory said. "He might have done it without the new message, eventually."

"This morning." Marya stared at her. "That meeting."

They looked at Sara and she got up. "Yeah, I got to go."

Everybody was hypnotized by the cube, but Rory lowered her voice to a whisper anyhow. "He was openly rebellious and she was really pissed off. It looked as if she'd allowed him to be in on the conference call if he promised to behave. But then he wouldn't go along with the party line."

"This is the scoop you called about?"

"Yes. The president was going to authorize three orbital weapons: masers powered by H-bombs. Pauling seemed to think they would wind up pointed the wrong way. Toward France."

"Ah. That's the DOD connection."

"What?"

"He said on the cube he was after the secretary of defense as well as the president."

"He did, right. Another interesting thing ... the president cut him off, but I think there's only one of these masers. I guess the other two are decoys."

"I don't know how much of this I can use. Though I appreciate knowing it."

"What could they do to you?"

"Cut me off from Washington sources, at the least. Haul me up in front of a security committee—hell, they've got the undersecretary of defense under house arrest."

"Isn't he the secretarynow?"

She shook her head. "Doesn't work that way. The president, whoever that may be, appoints a new one. If he can find anybody at home—I suspect half of Washington will be out beyond the Beltways before quitting time."

"France might do something?"

"More likely the Jihad. But we have lots of enemies who can see that it would be a good time for a couple of strategically placed bombs. Convenient to be out of New York, too."

"Sleepy college towns have their advantages."

"This one, I don't know. The way the Jihad rails about the Coming, they might be able to spare a bomb for here or the Cape. As long as they're bombing."

"You're not kidding?"

"Just professionally paranoid. Look at that. They kept turning rocks over until they found him."

Carl Lamb was standing on the Capitol steps next to Cool Moon Davis, who looked like a ninety-year-old Native American who had just been dragged out of a deep sleep. He was only seventy-two, actually, but had had an eventful life.

"Speaker Davis, do you have any words for America at this tragic time?"

He looked up into the camera, eyes dull, and straightened up slightly when his earphone started feeding him lines. "I've always admired Carly Simon—Carly LaSalle, that is, for her spirit and her dedication to American ideals of America. Like all Americans I feel a deep lens of sauce, I mean sense of sauce, and a truly deep outrage at this crime against the Republic. The crime of assassination."

"He came up with that himself," Marya muttered.

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker. We ... uh ... we have a link to Walter Reed, and the vice-president, I mean President Mossberg, wants to address the nation."

He looked bad, his chest a tight wrapping of bloodstained bandage, arms inert at his sides, breathing tube taped to his nose.

His normally clear voice was gravelly and nasal. "The doctors say I have a good chance of surviving, but I have spent most of my life in the company of professional liars, and I can see through them." He coughed violently, and a nurse cut off the view for a moment.

"I am ordering that an election be held as soon as possible after my death, and I'm sure Mr. Cool agrees." He spoke slowly, teeth clenched. "The nation faces—the world and this nation face an unprecendented historical challenge one month from now. We need a leader in place who is ... is not Cool Moon Davis." He grimaced and his head lolled to one side. "Am I still alive?"

"Your brain is alive," a male voice said. "Not much else is."

"Thank you. In fact, I believe that you could pull a random citizen off the street and find him or her better able to deal with this crisis than Representative Davis. Or the late president, for that matter. Forgive me for speaking plainly, but—" The cube went dark, and faded back in with Carl Lamb and Davis, both looking a little pale.

"We seem to have lost—"

"The vice-president," Davis cut in, "has not been sworn into office ... " He paused, listening. "And cannot yet speak as president. The laws of succession are plain, and there is no need for a special election."

"Chief Justice West is hurrying to Walter Reed as we speak," Lamb said. "He was en route to New York when this disaster struck."

Miguel Parando

The bartender realized he'd been cleaning the same glass for several minutes, ever since the emergency signal came from the cube. Someone broke a rack with a loud crash.

"Hey!" He spun around. "You show some respect?"

It was Leroy, a tall white guy, dealer. "I'm payin' for this table by the hour. You show me some respect." He lined up an easy shot and hit hard with a lot of draw, whack-thump,and the cue ball glided back to its starting place. "She was the worst president we ever had. So somebody finally punched her fuckin' ticket. What took so long, is what I wonder."

"You a hard fuckin' case, Leroy. She was a nice lady."

"Nice lookin'," said a short fat man at the bar. "I wouldn't go no farther than that. People in Washington didn't think much of her."

"You think much of them?"

A woman in a sparkly silver shift, blue eyes and black skin like the bartender's, smoothed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "I'd like a whiskey, Miguel." She put another bill on top. "And anybody else who wants one."

"When did you start drinkin', Connie?"

"Just now. A little ice?"

Leroy came up, emptied his glass, and put it on the bar. "I'll have one for her vaporized ass."

"Somebody gonna vaporize yourass someday, Leroy," Connie said. "You ought to get in some other business. The people you run with."