The woman concluded her e-mail with, "Bonne chance!"

Bonne chance. Good luck. Yes, he'd certainly need a lot of that.

Theo knew the emergency number for the Geneva police off by heart: 1-1-7; indeed, it was printed on a sticker attached to all of CERN's phones. But he had no idea what the general-inquiry number was. He used the telephone keyboard on his phone, found the number, and dialed it.

"Allo," said Theo. "Detective Helmut Drescher, s'il vous plait."

"We don't have a detective by that name," said the male cop at the other end of the phone.

"He might have some other position. Something more junior."

"There's no one here by that name at all," said the voice.

Theo considered. "Do you have a directory of other police departments in Switzerland? Is there any way to check?"

"I don't have anything like that here; we'd have to dig around a bit."

"Could you do that?"

"What's this all about?"

Theo decided that honesty — or, at least, semi-honesty — was the best policy. "He's investigating a murder, and I've got some information."

"All right; I'll look into it. How can I reach you?"

Theo left his name and number, thanked the officer, then hung up. He decided to try a more direct approach, tapping out Drescher's name on the telephone keyboard.

Pay dirt. There was only one Helmut Drescher in Geneva; he lived on Rue Jean-Dassier.

Theo dialed the number.

Striking hospital workers in Poland voted unanimously to return to work today. "Our cause is just, and we will take labor action again — but for now, our duty to humanity must come first," said Union leader Stefan Wyszynski.

Cineplex/Odeon, a large movie-theater chain, has announced free tickets for all patrons who were attending movies during the Flashforward. Although apparently the movies played on during the event, the audience lost consciousness, missing about two minutes of the action. Other theater chains are expected to follow suit.

After a record number of applications were filed in the last 24 hours, the United States Patent Office has closed until further notice, pending a decision from Congress on the patenting of inventions gleaned from the visions.

The Committee for Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal has issued a press release, pointing out that although we don't yet have an explanation for the Flashforward, there is no reason to invoke supernatural causes.

European Mutual, the largest insurance company in the European Union, has declared bankruptcy.

It was time, sooner than they'd thought. The shock of yesterday had pushed Marie-Claire Beranger into labor. Gaston took his wife to the hospital in Thoiry; the Berangers lived in Geneva, but it was important emotionally to them both that their son be born on French soil.

As CERN's Director-General, Gaston was well rewarded, and Marie-Claire, a lawyer, made a good income, too. Still, it was reassuring to know that regardless of their means, Marie-Claire would have gotten all the medical care she needed while she was expecting. Gaston had heard that in the United States many women see a doctor for the first time during their pregnancy on the day they give birth. It was no wonder that the U.S. had an infant-mortality rate many times higher than did Switzerland or France. No, they were going to give their son the best of everything. He knew it was a boy, and not just because of the vision. Marie-Claire was forty-two, and their doctor had recommended a series of sonograms during the pregnancy; they had quite clearly seen the little feller's little feller.

Of course there had been no way to conceal his vision from Marie-Claire; Gaston wasn't one for keeping secrets from his wife, anyway, but in this case, it was impossible. She'd had a corresponding vision — the same fight with Marc, but from her point of view. Gaston was glad that Lloyd Simcoe had managed to prove that the visions were synchronized by talking to his grad student and that woman in Canada; Marie-Claire and Gaston had vowed to keep their vision private.

Still, there had been issues, even though they'd both been part of the same scene. Marie-Claire had asked Gaston to describe what she looked like twenty years hence. Gaston had glossed over some details, her weight gain among them; she'd complained for months about how huge she was because of the pregnancy, and how she was determined to get her figure back quickly.

For his part, Gaston had been surprised to learn from her that he would have a beard in 2030; he'd never grown one in his youth, and now that his whiskers were already coming in gray, he'd assumed he'd never have one in the future, either. She told him he would keep his hair, though — but whether that was the truth, just a kindness on her part, or an indication that by the end of the third decade of this century that there would be easy and common cures for baldness, he didn't know.

The hospital was jammed with patients, many on gurneys out in corridors; they'd apparently been there since yesterday's event. Still, most of the injuries had either been instantly fatal, requiring no hospital visit, or broken bones and burns; comparatively few patients had actually been admitted. And, thankfully, the obstetrics ward was only slightly busier than usual. Marie-Claire was conveyed there in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse; Gaston walked alongside, holding his wife's hand.

Gaston was a physicist, of course — or, at least, had been one once; his various administrative portfolios had kept him from personally doing any real science for more than a dozen years. He had no idea what had caused the visions. Oh, certainly, they were likely related to the LHC experiment; the timing coincidence was too much to ignore. But whatever caused them, and however unpleasant his own one was, Gaston didn't regret his vision. It had been a warning, a wake-up call, a portent. And he would heed it — he wouldn't let things turn that way. He'd be a good father; he'd make lots of time for his son.

He squeezed his wife's hand.

And they headed into the delivery room.

The house was large and attractive — and, with its proximity to the lake, doubtless expensive. Its exterior lines suggested a chalet, but that was obviously an affectation: housing in cosmopolitan Geneva was as far-removed from Swiss chalets as that in Manhattan was from farmhouses. Theo rang the doorbell and waited, hands in his pockets, until it was opened.

"You must be the gentleman from CERN," said the woman. Although Geneva was located in the French-speaking part of Switzerland, the woman's accent was German. As headquarters of numerous international organizations, Geneva attracted people from all over the world.

"That's right," said Theo, then, guessing at the appropriate honorific, "Frau Drescher." She was perhaps forty-five, slim, very pretty, with hair that Theo guessed was naturally blonde. "My name is Theo Procopides. Thank you for letting me come."

Frau Drescher lifted her narrow shoulders once. "I wouldn't normally, of course — a stranger who calls on the phone. But it's been such a strange couple of days."

"It has indeed," said Theo. "Is Herr Drescher home?"

"Not yet. Sometimes his business keeps him late."

Theo smiled indulgently. "I can imagine. Police work must be very demanding."

The woman frowned. "Police work? What exactly is it you think my husband does?"

"He's a police officer, no?"

"Helmut? He sells shoes; he has a shop on rue du Rhone."