Anita frowned. 'Trekkie? What's that? Never mind; the thing is, Zigler wants to do a remake of Star Trek. He's got a script, with the Scarecrows in it and everything, and he's casting. The thing is,' she said, clearing her throat, 'Zigler's been trying to get in touch with you, either of you, but the Bureau won't pass his messages on. He wants you for Captain Kirk. That's the lead part, in case you didn't know.' Dannerman stared at her. She stood up, beginning to dress. 'He said there'd be a part in it for me, too, if he could get you for the Kirk role,' she finished, sounding embarrassed and defensive, 'but that's my problem, not yours. Think about it, will you? Now, which way is that bathroom of yours?'
When Anita was gone Dannerman pulled his own clothes on, thinking.
Too much was happening. Never mind the fact that there were two of him, never mind the Scarecrows, never mind any of those great events that were screwing up the lives of everybody in the world. The things that were happening in his own personal world were already more than he knew how to handle. Acting? A starring part?-and with one of Broadway's most famous producers? And what about Anita Berman herself: what a chance this was for her, if only he'd agree to do the thing that any would-be actor in the world would kill to do?
When the hammering began at his door Dannerman was deep in fantasies of stardom, married life with Anita, the stage, the life of a Lunt and Fontanne, fame, riches-
'Here I come, Anita,' he called, reaching for the doorknob.
It wasn't Anita, though he saw her standing farther down the hall, looking like a woman in a state of shock. The one doing the hammering was his landlady, and she looked terrified. 'Dan!' she cried. 'Turn on your screen! Those space people are shooting rockets at us!'
CHAPTER THIRTY
Back in New York, Pat dithered for some time before reluctantly leaving Patrice in sole charge at the Observatory. That was where all the excitement was, but sisterly duty was compelling. At the hospital entrance Pat didn't have to go through the weapons search. The Bureau guard spoke to the hospital security man at the door, who listened, then reluctantly waved them through. He didn't even make the Bureau guard check her weapon, though Pat's own little derringer was taken away.
Pat Five was in a private room-really a suite-and paid for, the funny thing was, by the government of the People's Republic of China on behalf of the triplets' putative father. Pat Five's own guard was sitting on a straight- backed chair outside the door; alerted to their coming, she clapped her hands and the door opened.
Pat didn't see her semisister at first, because Pat Five's bed had pull-up sides to keep her from falling out, and they were hung with sheets to keep out drafts. Pat had to step right up to the bed and look down in order to show Pat Five the flowers she'd brought. 'How are you doing?' she asked.
Pat Five opened her eyes to peer up at her. She looked like hell. Her face was blotchier than ever, and her auburn hair was sweated into clumps. She was not going to be able to take advantage of the comfortable sitting room next door, with its picture-window view of the city, or even the fully equipped bathroom that came with the suite. One of her arms was strapped down because of the IVs that were taped in place; pulse monitors were mounted on her throat and a respiration microphone on her right side. From under the light blanket that covered the lower half of her body inconspicuous tubes led to plastic waste bags, showing that she was still catheterized. 'How am I doing?' she asked. 'I'm doing lousy. Do you know they want me to stay flat on my back for the next six weeks?'
'Ah, honey,' Pat clucked. The words weren't meant to convey information. It was only what you said when you had nothing better to offer. She thought of reminding Pat that this was all for the benefit of her unborn babies, but the last time she'd tried that Pat had talked fretfully of the attractions of a midterm abortion.
'Anyway,' Pat said brightly, 'I've got some news. Mr. Hecksher served all the papers, and he has an appointment to talk to the people at the UN this afternoon. He has a new paper for you to sign-something for the Chinese government, to say that you are accepting their financial assistance ex gratia, whatever that is, but without admitting any claim to the children. Can you actually sign?'
'Legibly, no. But the nurses help me, so just leave it. What's this about an object approaching the Earth? Is it the goddam Beloved Leaders?'
Pat's strictest order from the doctors was not to excite the patient, so she said reassuringly, 'People say it might be, but it's not coming anywhere near the Earth.'
'I don't trust the bastards,' Pat Five said glumly.
'Well, no one does.' Pat cast around for a more cheerful subject. 'You wouldn't believe the get-well messages that have been coming for you. From people all over the world. Everybody we've ever known, even our ex- husbands-and relatives we haven't heard from for years.'
'Sure, they think we might be coming into a lot of money.'
'Oh, not all of them,' Pat protested. 'There are a lot of people that just like you-us. And-wait a minute.'
It was her carryphone. She frowned as she answered it; she wasn't supposed to be called on the private line except in emergency. It was Patrice on the line. She said, 'Pat? Get your ass back here. Don't say anything to Pat Five-but the damn thing has changed course, and it looks like it's going to impact the Earth.'
When Pat Adcock got back to the Observatory she saw the whole thing, from that first chance-caught burn on, because the news channels kept rerunning every sighting. At twenty-five Earth radii the object-no, damn it, Pat said fretfully to herself; call it a spacecraft, because there wasn't any more doubt that that was what it was-the spacecraft produced another great display of fireworks. When the burn was over and they calculated the new orbit-a stretched-out ellipse, with the spacecraft now on the descending leg-there wasn't any doubt. It was definitely going to impact the Earth. 'Right on top of us,' Patrice groaned as she inspected the oval of the expected footprint, swallowing up half of the western Atlantic and a lot of the bulge of South America. 'They know we're all here, and they're after us.'
'If it's big enough,' Rosaleen offered, 'it doesn't much matter where it hits. Remember how the Scarecrows offed their enemies by dumping asteroids on them?'
But it wasn't that big. Pat was sure of that much. What it was was another question entirely: supernuclear bomb? Bioweapons? Patrice, thinking along the same lines, said tightly, 'I wonder if the government's going to try to evacuate the Eastern Seaboard.'
But if they did, where would they evacuate the people to? And how could they move a hundred million men and
