Miss Marston watched for several moments, then turned away.

"All right, class," she began. "It's only-"

Then the sirens sounded. Involuntarily, Miss Marston felt her shoulders rise and tighten.

"Air raid!" called a girl named Charlotte in the first row. "Is not," said Jimmy Walker, teeth braces flashing. "They don't have them anymore. The war's over."

"I know what they sound like," Charlotte said. "Every time there was a blackout-"

"But there's no more war," Bobby Tremson stated. "That will be enough, class," Miss Marston said. "Perhaps they're testing them."

But she looked back out the window and saw a small flash of fire in the sky before a reef of cloud blocked her view of the aerial conflict.

"Stay in your seats," she said then, as several students had risen and were moving toward the window. "I'm going to check in the office and see whether there's a drill that hadn't been announced. I'll be right back. You may talk if you do it quietly." She departed, banging the door behind her. Croyd continued to stare at the cloud screen, waiting for it to part again.

"It's Jetboy," he said to Bobby Tremson, across the aisle. "Aw, c'mon," Bobby said. "What would he be doing up there? The war's over."

"It's a jet plane. I've seen it in newsreels, and that's how it goes. And he's got the best one."

"You're just making that up," Liza called from the rear of the room.

Croyd shrugged.

"There's somebody bad up there, and he's fighting them," he said. "I saw the fire. There's shooting."

The sirens continued to wail. From the street outside came the sound of screeching brakes, followed by the brief hoot of an auto horn and the dull thud of collision.

"Accident!" Bobby called, and everyone was getting up and moving to the window.

Croyd rose then, not wanting his view blocked; and because he was near he found a good spot. He did not look at the accident, however, but continued to stare upward.

"Caved in his trunk," Joe Sarzanno said. "What?" a girl asked.

Croyd heard the distant booming sounds now. The plane was no longer in sight.

"What's the noise?" Bobby asked. "Antiaircraft fire," Croyd said. "You're nutsl"

"They're trying to shoot the things down, whatever they are."

"Yeah. Sure. Just like in the movies."

The clouds began to close again. But as they did, Croyd thought that he glimpsed the jet once more, sweeping in on a collision course with the blimps. His view was blocked then, before he could be sure.

"Damn!" he said. "Get 'em, Jetboy!"

Bobby laughed and Croyd shoved him, hard. "Hey! Watch who you're pushing!"

Croyd turned toward him, but Bobby did not seem to want to pursue the matter. He was looking out of the window again, pointing.

"Why are all those people running?"

"I don't know."

"Is it the accident?"

"Nave"

"Look! There's anotherl"

A blue Studebaker had swung rapidly about the corner, swerved to miss the two stopped vehicles, and clipped an oncoming Ford. Both cars were turned at an angle. Other vehicles braked and halted to avoid colliding with them.

Several horns began to sound. The muffled noises of antiaircraft fire continued within the wail of the sirens. People were rushing along the streets now, not even pausing to regard the accidents.

"Do you think the war started again?" Charlotte asked. "I don't know," Leo said.

The sound of a police siren was suddenly mixed with the other noises.

"Jeez!" Bobby said. "Here comes another!"

Before he finished speaking a Pontiac had run into the rear of one of the stopped vehicles. Three pairs of drivers confronted each other on foot; one couple angrily, the others simply talking and occasionally pointing upward. Shortly, they all departed and hurried off along the street.

"This is no drill," Joe said.

"I know," Croyd answered, staring at the area where a cloud had grown pink from the brightness it masked. "I think it's something real bad."

He moved back from the window. "I'm going home now," he said.

"You'll get in trouble," Charlotte told him. He glanced at the clock.

"I'll bet the bell rings before she gets back," he answered. "If you don't go now I don't think they'll let you go with whatever that is going on-and I want to go home."

He turned away and crossed to the door. "I'm going, too," Joe said.

"You'll both get in trouble."

They passed along the hallway. As they neared the front door an adult voice, masculine, called out from up the hall, "You two! Come back here!"

Croyd ran, shouldered open the big green door, and kept going. Joe was only a step behind him as he descended the steps. The street was full of stopped cars now, for as far as he could see in either direction. There were people on the tops of buildings and people at every window, most of them looking upward.

He rushed to the sidewalk and turned right. His home was six blocks to the south, in an anomalous group of row houses in the eighties. Joe's route took him half that way, then off to the east.

Before they reached the corner they were halted as a stream of people flowed from the side street to the right, cutting into their line of pedestrian traffic, some turning north and trying to push through, others heading south. The boys heard cursing and the sound of a fistfight from up ahead. Joe reached out and tugged at a man's sleeve. The man jerked his arm away, then looked down.

"What's happening?" Joe shouted.

"Some kind of bomb," the man answered. "Jetboy tried to stop the guys who had it. I think they were all blown up. The thing might go off any minute. Maybe atomic."

"Where'd it fall?" Croyd yelled. The man gestured to the northwest. "That way."

Then the man was gone, having seen an opening and pushed his way through.

"Croyd, we can get past on the street if we go over the hood of that car," Joe said.

Croyd nodded and followed the other boy across the stillwarm hood of a gray Dodge. The driver swore at them, but his door was blocked by the press of bodies and the door on the passenger side could only open a few inches before hitting the fender of a taxi. They made their way around the cab and passed through the intersection at its middle, traversing two more cars on the way.

Pedestrian traffic eased near to the center of the next block, and it looked as if there was a large open area ahead. They sprinted toward it, then halted abruptly.

A man lay upon the pavement. He was having convulsions. His head and hands had swollen enormously, and they were dark red, almost purple in color. Just as they caught sight of him, blood began to rush from his nose and mouth; it trickled from his ears, it oozed from his eyes and about his fingernails.

"Holy Maryl" Joe said, crossing himself as he drew back. "What's he got?"

"I don't know," Croyd answered. "Let's not get too close. Let's go over some more cars."

It took them ten minutes to reach the next corner. Somewhere along the way they noticed that the guns had been silent for a long time, though the air-raid sirens, police sirens, and auto horns maintained a steady din.

"I smell smoke," Croyd said.

"Me, too. If something's burning no fire truck's going to get to it."

"Whole damn town could burn down."

"Maybe it's not all like this."

"Bet it is."

They pushed ahead, were caught in a press of bodies and swept about the corner.

"We're not going this wayl" Croyd yelled.

But it did not matter, as the mass of people about them was halted seconds later.

"Think we can crawl through to the street and go over cars again?" Joe asked.

"Might as well try."

They made it. Only this time, as they worked their way back toward the corner it was slower, as others were taking the same route. Croyd saw a reptilian face through a windshield then, and scaly hands clutching at a steering wheel that had been torn loose from its column as the driver slowly slumped to the side. Looking away, he saw a rising tower of smoke from beyond buildings to the northeast.