'ATTENTION! THIS IS THE CHESTER'S MILL POLICE! THE AREA—' Closer. Moving in.

'Thurston! The dope! Where did you leave the dope?'

'Don't worry,' he said, but the quaver in his voice suggested he was incapable of taking his own advice. He was a tall, reedy man with a lot of graying hair that he usually tied back in a ponytail. Now it lay loose, almost to his shoulders. He was sixty; Carolyn was twenty-three. 'All these little camps are deserted at this time of year, they'll just drive past and back to the Little Bitch R—'

She pounded him on the shoulder—a first. 'The car is in the driveway! They'll see the car!'

An oh shit look dawned on his face.

'-EVACUATED! IF YOU HEAR ME, COME TO THE SOUND OF MY VOICE! ATTENTION! ATTENTION!' Very close now. Thurston could hear other amplified voices, as well—people using loudhailers, cops using loudhailers—but this one was almost on top of them.'THE AREA IS BEING EVAC—'There was a moment of silence. Then: 'HELLO, CABIN! COME OUT HERE! MOVE IT!'

Oh, this was a nightmare.

'Where did you leave the dope?' She pounded him again.

The dope was in the other room. In a Baggie that was now half empty, sitting beside a platter of last night's cheese and crackers. If someone came in, it would be the first goddam thing they saw.

'THIS IS THE POLICE! WE ARE NOT SCREWING AROUND HERE! THE AREA IS BEING EVACUATED! IF YOU'RE IN THERE, COME OUT BEFORE WE HAVE TO DRAG YOU OUT!'

Pigs, he thought. Smalltown pigs with smalltown piggy minds.

Thurston sprang from the bed and ran across the room, hair flying, skinny buttocks flexing.

His grandfather had built the cabin after World War II, and it had only two rooms: a big bedroom facing the pond and the living room/kitchen. Power was provided by an old Henske generator, which Thurston had turned off before they had retired; its ragged blat was not exactly romantic. The embers of last night's fire—not really necessary, but tres romantic—still winked sleepily in the fireplace.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe I put the dope back in my attache—

Unfortunately, no. The dope was there, right next to the remains of the Brie they had gorged on before commencing last night's fuckathon.

He ran to it, and there was a knock on the door. No, a hammering on the door.

'Just a minute!'Thurston cried, madly merry. Carolyn was standing in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in a sheet, but he hardly noticed her.Thurston's mind—still suffering residual paranoia from the previous evening's indulgences—tumbled with unconnected thoughts: revoked tenure, 1984 thought-police, revoked tenure, the disgusted reaction of his three children (by two previous wives), and, of course, revoked tenure. 'Just a minute, just a sec, let me get dressed—'

But the door burst open, and—in direct violation of about nine different Constitutional guarantees—two young men strode in. One held a bullhorn. Both were dressed in jeans and blue shirts. The jeans were almost comforting, but the shirts bore shoulder-patches and badges.

We don't need no stinkin badges, Thurston thought numbly.

Carolyn shrieked, 'Get out of here!'

Check it out, Junes,' Frankie DeLesseps said. 'It's When Homy Met Slutty!

Thurston snatched up the Baggie, held it behind his back, and dropped it into the sink.

Junior was eyeing the equipment this move revealed. 'That's about the longest and skinniest dorkola I've ever seen,' he said. He looked tired, and came by the look honestly—he'd had only two hours' sleep—but he was feeling fine, absolutely ripping, old bean. Not a trace of a headache.

This work suited him.

'Get OUT!' Carolyn shouted.

Frankie said, 'You want to shut your mouth, sweetheart, and put on some clothes. Everyone on this side of town's being evacuated.'

'This is our place! GET THE FUCK OUT!'

Frankie had been smiling. Now he stopped. He strode past the skinny naked man standing by the sink (quailing by the sink might have been more accurate) and grabbed Carolyn by the shoulders. He gave her a brisk shake. 'Don't give me lip, sweetheart. I'm trying to keep you from getting your ass fried. You and your boyfr-*

'Get your hands off me! You'll go to jail for this! My father's a lawyer!' She tried to slap him. Frankie—not a morning person, never had been—seized her hand and bent it back. Not really hard, but Carolyn screamed. The sheet dropped to the floor.

'Whoa! That's a serious rack,' Junior confided to the gaping Thurston Marshall. 'Can you keep up with that, old fella?'

'Get your clothes on, both of you,' Frankie said. 'I don't know how dumb you are, but pretty dumb would be my guess, since you're still here. Don't you know—' He stopped. Looked from the woman's face to the man's. Both equally terrified. Equally mystified.

'Junior!' he said.

'What?'

'Titsy McGee and wrinkle-boy don't know what's going on.'

'Don't you dare call me any of your sexist—'

Junior held up his hands. 'Ma'am, get dressed. You have to get out of here. The U.S. Air Force is going to fire a Cruise missile at this part of town in'—he looked at his watch—'a little less than five hours.'

'ARE YOU INSANE?' Carolyn screamed.

Junior heaved a sigh and then pushed ahead. He guessed he understood the whole cop thing a little better now. It was a great job, but people could be so stupid. 'If it bounces off, you'd just hear a big bang. Might cause you to shit your pants—if you were wearing any—but it wouldn't hurt you. If it punches through, though, you'd most likely get charbroiled, since it's gonna be really big and you're less than two miles from what they say is gonna be the point of impact.'

'Bounces off what, you dimwit?' Thurston demanded. With the dope in the sink, he now used one hand to cover his privates… or at least tried to; his love-machine was indeed extremely long and skinny.

'The Dome,' Frankie said. 'And I don't appreciate your mouth.' He took a long step forward and punched the current guest editor of Ploughshares in the gut. Thurston made a hoarse whoofmg sound, doubled over, staggered, almost kept his feet, went to his knees, and vomited up about a teacup's worth of thin white gruel that still smelled of Brie.

Carolyn held her swelling wrist. 'You'll go to jail for this,' she promised Junior in a low, trembling voice. 'Bush and Cheney are long gone. This isn't the United States of North Korea anymore.'

'I know that,'Junior said, with admirable patience for one who was thinking he wouldn't mind doing a little more choking; there was a small dark Gila monster in his brain that thought a little more choking would be just the way to start the day off right.