“I am going to control myself and not ask you why you are going there in the middle of the night when it is closed. I'm afraid you'd tell me. Grab a hack at Union Station when you get in and tell him Smithsonian. Maybe the night watchman will know where your friend is. All I can do is wish you good luck.”

Professor Weisman sat calmly, his old briefcase on his lap, as they drove to the station. In Moscow Academician Moshkin was sitting in the same position holding a very similar briefcase. Yet this wasn't the only thing they had in common.

Each was an astronomer with a world-wide reputation.

Each specialized in the study of the sun.

26

GET 13:57

“Have a cigar, Cooper,” the Editor said. “You won't have smoked anything like this in years. A real Havana, claro, the first batch in after the trade treaty with Cuba.”

“Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry, I don't smoke.”

Cooper was too nervous to twitch or even think of nibbling his fingers. He rarely met the Editor of the paper, and certainly had never been in his office before. Here even the City Editor, that tower of strength and vituperation, was subdued and in the background. The Editor opened the liquor cabinet; his fingernails were shining and pink, his hands plump and white, his tailoring immaculate. None of the ink or dirt of the newspaper had rubbed off on him. He held up a cut glass decanter and smiled, showing two rows of perfect white teeth.

“But you'll have a drink of course,” he said. “Twenty-year-old bonded Canadian, I think you might like it. Water?”

Cooper just nodded at every question, still unsure of himself, not knowing why he was here. To be fired? No, the underlings would take care of tasks like that. Then why? He took a large sip of the drink and tried not to cough. His throat was on fire; a cherry coke was the strongest thing he normally indulged in.

“Good, isn't it? I knew you would like it.” He glanced at the City Editor. “Time yet?” he asked.

“A few more minutes, sir.”

“Well warm it up.” The City Editor waded through the carpet to the TV on its carved mahogany case and turned it on. “A special broadcast from Great Britain, Cooper. I thought you ought to see it.”

“Yes, fine idea, thank you, sir.” He got more of the drink down and blinked through his tears at the familiar face of Vance Cortwright on the screen. Cortwright wore his most somber expression and when he spoke it was in deep, funereal tones.

“There is neither moon nor stars in the clouded skies of Britain tonight, as though the very heavens themselves have gone into mourning for the dead. This country has known many disasters in the past with plagues, the Great Fire in London, the trench deaths in the First World War and the bombings in the Second. These people know how to fight and how to survive — and how to die with dignity if they must. But never before have they experienced a disaster to match the one that happened here short hours ago. Reports are still coming in about isolated tragedies, but the central, unbelievable core of the holocaust that struck without warning from the sky is behind me here. The site where Cottenham New Town used to stand. I say used to because there is no other way to describe this.”

The scene changed as he continued to talk and little could be made of it at first, just moving lights and rolling clouds of some kind. It was only when the camera zoomed back from the close-up that a demolished structure of some kind could be distinguished. Spotlights were on it and firemen, wearing breathing apparatus, were working on it, tearing at it, in the midst of clouds of smoke and dust.

“This was a prosperous farm on the outskirts of the town, a solid structure going back hundreds of years. It was destroyed in an instant by the blast, turned into this jumble of broken timber you see. There can be little hope that anyone could have survived this destruction but a search must still be made. No need to search the town itself.”

As the camera moved, the site of Cottenham New Town came into view. Spotlights and Army searchlights illuminated the area. Nothing could be made of it, nothing comprehensible could be seen. There was no connection at all between this vista of blackened, smoking rubble and the city of buildings, homes and people that had existed there. There were still fires; the smoke clouds were lit from below as from an opening to hell. Even Cortwright's modulated voice broke at the sight.