That’s him. Roger took a table against the wall. The waitress wasn’t more than sixteen. Owner’s daughter? For damn sure nobody cares any more. Interesting how disasters make people mind their, own goddamn business instead of other people’s. Rum sour.”

“No rum. Whiskey.”

“Whiskey sour.”

“Lemons cost four times as much as whiskey. Still want it?”

Roger produced his gold American Express card. “Sure.” “Yes, sir.”

As he’d expected, the drink was corn whiskey, probably not more than a week old. It needed the lemon juice. And so do I. Vitamin C, and the Post can afford it…

The music and words were sung not quite loud enough to hear, and distracting. Hell, if they’d just sing it straight through and get it over with… The red-bearded man seemed intent on his lesson. Roger decided to wait him out. He took out his notebook and idly flipped through the pages. There was a column due at the end of the week. Somewhere in here is the story I need…

COLORADO SPRINGS: Military intelligence outfit. Interviewing National Guardsmen from the Jayhawk War area. (Goddam, those Kansans think they’re tougher than Texans!) Two turned loose two days before. Didn’t want to talk to me. Security? Probably. That bottle of I. W. Harper Rosalee found took care of that…

RAFAEL ARMANZEITI: Didn’t look like a Kansan. “I was aiming for the head, of course. It was standing broadside to me, and I shot at something and the recoil jerked it back and I thought I’d missed. It whipped around and I was looking right into that huge barrel while it pulled the trigger a dozen times in two seconds. I must have shot out the firing mechanism.

“It must have known I was going to shoot it.” Armanzeiti had laughed. “It did the damnedest thing. It fell over and rolled, just like I’d already shot it. Belly up, legs in the air, just like a dog that’s been trained to play dead.”

“You shot it?”

“Sure. But, my God! How stupid do they think we are?”

JACK CODY: “When that beam started spiraling in on us, Greg Bannerman just pulled the chopper hard left and started us dropping. ‘Jump out,’ he said. No special emphasis, but loud. Me, I jumped. I hit water and there was bubbles all around me. Then the lake lit up with this weird blue-green color. I could see the whole lake even through the bubbles. Fish. Weeds. A car on its back. Bubbles like sapphires.

“Something big splashed in, and then stuff started pattering down, metal, globs of melted helicopter-I’ve got one here, I caught it while it was sinking.

“The light went out and I came up for air-there was a layer of hot water-and then I looked for the big chunk, and it was Chuck, waving his arms, drowning. I pulled him out. When I saw his back I thought he was a deader. Charred from his heels to his head. I started pushing on his back and he coughed out a lot of water and started breathing. I wasn’t sure I’d done right. But the chare was just his clothes. It peeled off him and left him, like, naked and sunburned, except his hands. Black. Crisp. He must have put his hands over his neck.

“But we’d be dead like the rest if we didn’t just damn well trust Greg Bannerman. Here’s to Greg.”

LAS ANIMAS, COLORADO: prosperous man, middle-aged, in good shape. Gymnasium-and-massage look. Good shoes, good clothes, all worn out.

He needed a lift. I didn’t want to stop, but Rosalee made me do it. Said he looked like somebody I ought to know. Damn, that woman has a good head for a story. Good head—

HARLEY JACKSON GORDON.

“I kept passing dead cars. Then burning cars. I tried to pick up some of the people on foot, but they just shook their heads. It was spooky. Finally I just got out and left my Mercedes sitting in the road. I walked away, and then I went back and put my keys in it. Maybe someone can use it, after this is all over, and I couldn’t stand the thought of that Mercedes just rusting in the road. But it felt like bad luck. So I walked. And yes, the snouts came, and yes, l rolled over on my back, but I don’t much like talking about that part, if you don’t mind.”

COLORADO SPRINGS: GENEVIEVE MARSH.

Tall, slender, not skinny. Handsome. Solid bones. No money. Nervous. Sick of talking with military people. Wanted a change. Dinner and candles. Rosalee left me the money to buy her dinner and bugged out.

Goddam. She’d make a hell of a reporter if she could write.

“They had us for two days. We thought they were getting ready to leave, and I guess they were, and they were going to take us with them. We all felt it. But on the last day some of them brought in a steer and some chickens and a duck, or maybe it was a goose. The aliens took us out of the pen, and they looked us over. Then they pulled me out, and I was hanging on to Gwen and Beatrice so tight I’m afraid I hurt them. And that crazy man from Menninger’s who spent all his time curled up with his head in his arms, they pulled on one arm and he had to follow. He never stopped swearing. No sense in it, just a stream of dirty words. They aimed us at the road and one of them s-swatted me on the ass with its-trunk? And I started walking, pulling Gwen along, Beatrice in my arms, and then we ran. Beatrice was like lead. We didn’t wait for the crazy man. When the spaceship took off we were far enough away that we only got a hot wind, and that glare. But they took the rest with them, and the animals took our place.” (Laughter). “Maybe they think the steer will breed!”

NEAR LOGAN.

Whole bunch, all types, digging around in a wrecked Howard Johnson’s. Nobody’s too proud to root for garbage now. Shit.

GINO PIETSCH.

“I knew there’d be a tornado shelter. Every building in Kansas has something, even if it’s a brick closet in a motel room., I broke in, and I found the tornado closet, and I hid. The snouts never even came looking. I guess they didn’t care much, if you were the type to hide. Every so often I came out just long enough to get water. And I was in the closet when the bombs came, and getting pretty hungry, but not hungry enough to come out. How much radiation did I get? Am I going to die?”

LAUREN, KANSAS:

That page was nearly blank. Roger stared at it. I have to write it down some day. Damn. Damnation.

Not just yet…

ROGER BROOKS, NATHANIEL REYNOLDS, ROSALEE PINELLI, CAROL NORTH.

The snouts were all over the city. George Bergson came up with the notion of using Molotov cocktails to wreck a snout tank…

The guitarists put away their instruments at last. Roger got up unsteadily. Three corn-whiskey sours had hit him harder than he’d expected. He moved over to the man with the fading red beard.

“Mr. Reddington?” “Hairy Red, that’s me. And you?”

“Roger Brooks. Washington Post. Capital Post now.”

“Yeah?”

Gotcha! Heroes need publicity. “I hear you have some good stories to tell. I’m collecting war stories. Drink?”

“Sure, but I gotta run. My ride leaves in five minutes.” Reddington turned to the bar. “Watney’s, Millie.”

“Money, Harry.”

“On me,” Roger called. “Things are tough, eh?”

“Toward the end of the month,” Harry admitted. “The Arms gives me a little something, but I had a bad run at poker—”

“Sure—”

“I get gasoline, too,” Harry said. “But I can’t sell that. Use it or lose it.”