The Devil's Eye

eleven. Add eight commercial vessels, fifteen naval and patrol, and you had the sum total available to the Administrator for evacuating two billion people. The station was quiet, tense, frightened. By the end of the second week, twenty-six of the thirty-four ships were en route to Sanctum, or on the way back. The remaining eight were either having the quantum drive installed or being retrofitted in some way. The one-way trip would run about sixteen days. The old Armstrong drive would have taken months. And, finally, Kilgore announced electrifying news from the Confederacy: 'A rescue fleet is forming,' he told the world. 'Some are already on the way.' But he warned again there would not be enough ships for everyone. 'Most of us will have to weather the storm on the ground. But we can do it. And we will.'

He showed pictures of individual ships that were already en route to Salud Afar, or soon would be. Passenger vessels from Khaja Luan and Dellaconda, cargo ships being refitted off Toxicon to carry passengers, private vehicles coming from Abonai and Salusar. 'We will survive,' Kilgore said. When he'd finished, Alex sat quietly for several minutes. 'What are you thinking?' I asked. 'About what's missing.' 'Ummm-What's missing?' 'The navy. If the Confederacy were serious, the navy would be leading the charge. That's where their real transport capabilities lie.' 'They can't come,' I said. 'They're virtually at war.' 'I know.' 'I'm not sure,' I admitted, 'I wouldn't do the same thing. You have to protect against the possibility of attack.'

A few days later, Kilgore had more news. First he talked about a food-packaging plant he was visiting. Vitacon Nutrition was making an enormous contribution, he said, to the general effort. Then he singled out a few more people for special notice. And finally the big story: 'The first wave of private and commercial spacecraft are approaching Salud Afar. We're setting up a lottery system to ensure fairness in selecting those who will, if they wish, be evacuated. Details are posted on the Coalition Bulletin Board. 'Also, I'm pleased to announce the first new shuttles have rolled off the line at Grimsley.'

There was an explosion the next day. Helmut Orr was a physicist who was fairly well-known primarily as a media figure. He sat on panels in which scientific issues were discussed, oversaw a program explaining the latest technological advances, and insisted that breaking through to alternate universes would be possible in the near future. He loved doing shows in which he explained what would happen if ice melted at a slightly lower temperature, or if gravity was a bit stronger or the electroweak force a bit weaker. Or in which the speed of light was slower, say two thousand kilometers per hour. The situations he picked all resulted in chaos. In addition, Orr loved bad news. Anything that allowed him to point out other people's failings. He was also a regular panelist in On the Spot , which blended science, politics, and entertainment. He was small, inevitably dwarfed by anyone, even the women, who appeared with him. But he was a dynamo. He got passionate about everything, about mirror matter and the interiors of stars and brown dwarfs. He was in love with the cosmos. And the day after the Administrator spoke at Vitacon Nutrition, he appeared on a panel to discuss the preparations being made to withstand the Thunderbolt. The moderator asked him if not having the assistance of the Confederate Navy would be a serious blow to the rescue effort. He looked directly at me. 'The rescue effort,' he said, 'is a hoax. You know what it really is? It's a distraction, nothing up this sleeve, nothing up that one. It's intended to keep us from realizing the truth, which is that we're all dead. Bring the navy if you want. Bring six navies. They'll get a few more people off the planet. But not very many. What your government isn't telling you is that in three years, we'll all be dead. All except a very small fraction. But they want us to keep cool and not make a lot of noise. 'Well, I say we're entitled to make some noise. We've known for centuries that Callistra was unstable. And, okay, I wouldn't have expected the Bandahriate to do anything. But they've been gone a long time now. Some of us have been pleading for a mission to Callistra, send some people out and find out what was going on, see if there's any danger. 'But they didn't. Couldn't be bothered. Hell, you can look up there every night and see it in the sky. But you watch: When that thing starts getting close, and people are getting rattled, the same guys who told us not to worry will be the first ones out of town.'

Had someone else said it, it might not have mattered. But everybody knew Helmut's name. He was perceived as the voice of reason. The newscasts picked up the comment and went with it. Had something else happened during the following days, a scandal in the capital, or a celebrity doing something stupid, the spotlight might have gone elsewhere and the story dropped off the public's sensors. But the Callistra story was the only one in town. So it ran over and over, and it served to intensify feelings through a population becoming increasingly nervous. One popular data site ran the headline: DEATH SENTENCE FOR THE WORLD? The Thunderbolt-the term was in common use by then-was everywhere. Comedians worked it into their routines. ('They're offering a two-for-one special on funerals if you come early, before the rush.') The insurance industry reported that sales were off sharply. Incoming classes at colleges, medical schools, and law schools were well below normal. Deepsea, Inc., which had provided undersea rides for a generation, had sold out for an end-of-the-world special three-day submerged tour. Two manufacturers of seagoing vessels announced that they were creating modular hulls that could be purchased, hauled inland, and assembled as shelters against radiation. Suicides were up. Weddings were taking place at an unusually high rate. Organizations that catered to kids, the Wilderness Troop, Girl Riders, Face Forward, and so on, brought in counselors to talk to their charges. Church attendance was up across the board. Reports surfaced that older people were most affected by the situation, fearing that they would have an especially difficult time in the after-math of the Thunderbolt. Governments around the world encouraged volunteer groups whose task it would be to step in after the event and provide emergency supplies to those in need. Salud Afar was rallying. People appeared every day on the HV to assure viewers that 'we' would come through this. Support for the Administrator was consolidating. A week earlier it had appeared that he would be forced out of office. But his approval ratings were moving steadily up. Meantime, the shuttles continued hauling passengers to Samuels, which filled with kids and baggage. Ships from the Confederacy began to arrive, first in ones and twos, then in squadrons. It was now the shuttles that became the bottleneck. People could not be moved to the station quickly enough. Alex suggested I recommend they use taxis.

We began to think that Kilgore had forgotten about us. Then one evening we got a call from the hotel lobby. A woman in business dress to see us. 'Mr. Benedict,' she said, 'the Administrator would like to talk with you.'

'Okay.'

'Your transportation has been arranged. Please report to the shuttle launch area within the hour.' She was apparently trying to figure out who I was. 'Miss, will you be going down, too?'

***

Number 17 was a beehive. Reporters overflowed the press room, shouting questions at someone I couldn't see. Staff members were everywhere, and I recognized Helmut Orr among a group of people being herded into an elevator. 'It's always like this now,' said one of the staff secretaries. They were expecting only Alex. My name had been called in on the flight down. I thought I'd been cleared, but there was still a delay while they checked to make sure I wasn't going to say something disrespectful to the Administrator. Then, when everyone seemed satisfied, Alex and I were hustled inside and delivered to his secretary. 'He's waiting for you,' she said. She took us back to the north wing and opened his office door. Kilgore was inside, huddled with half a dozen people. One was Circe. Heads turned our way. The Administrator looked up, gave us a strained smile, and pointed to a group of chairs against one wall. We sat down, and the conversation resumed. Have to do something about the shelters. Move faster. Get a program together that we can live with. I'm tired of the infighting. Got no time for that nonsense now. The shelters will hold a hell of a lot of people. We need to get that out to the public. Need to reassure everyone that they have a decent chance. That it's not as dark as the goddam media are saying. And there must be something more we can do. What about the gear coming in from Rimway? It broke up after a few minutes. The participants filed out, save Circe and a tall, aristocratic-looking man with neatly combed silver hair. Kilgore waved us over and welcomed us with a smile and a handshake. 'You know Circe.' Turning to the aristocrat, he said, 'This is Giambrey DeVrio. 'Giambrey is a member of the diplomatic staff. He was once the Bandahriate's ambassador to Rimway.' He was well into his second century, about average size, clean-shaven, sharp blue eyes. He shook hands with Alex and bowed to me. 'I've heard a great deal about you,' he said, looking me in the eye. The Administrator came out from