Jeanette frowned, “Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

“You bet your sweet — yes, ma’am, that’s unusual. Leastwise I never did anything like this before.”

She looked at the sheet of orders. They’d been hastily typed from telephone dictation, and looked nothing like standard military orders. She’d never seen anything like them. Come to that, she thought, not very many officers had. At the bottom it said “By order of the President of the United States ,” and below that was “For the President, James F. Frantz, Chief of Staff.”

“Those came in about an hour ago,” the lieutenant said. “And it’s all I know. We’re a training command, Captain.”

“All right, Lieutenant, but someone will have to go to my hotel. I have things there, and the bill has to be paid.”

“Yes, ma’am, Major Johnston said I’d have to take care of that. I’ll send your bags on to you, only I don’t know where to send them.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t think the White House would be the right address for a captain. But that’s the only place listed on those orders.”

Jeanette nodded, more to herself than to the lieutenant. Whenever she was in Washington , she stayed at Flintridge with her aunt and uncle, so that was no problem. Only it was probably a “hurry up and wait” situation. There wasn’t any need for her at the White House. Not that urgently, and probably not at all. The President would want to confirm the sighting, but before she could get to Washington he’d have a dozen others to tell him about the mysterious — what? She giggled.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Richard Owen said.

“What do we call it?” she asked. “UFO? But it isn’t flying.”

Lieutenant Brassfield looked puzzled. “UFO? All this is over a flying saucer?”

“Yes,” Jeanette said.

“Hey, now wait a minute …”

“It’s all true,” Richard Owen said. “We’ve spotted an alien spaceship. It’s on its way to Earth. Captain Crichton called the Army.”

“Maybe I better not know any more about this,” Brassfield said.

Jeanette thought of Richard Owen’s upcoming press conference and laughed. “It won’t hurt. Lieutenant, do you have anyone in Kona? Or somebody who can get there fast?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Have him go to the Kamehameha Hotel and collect my bags. He’s to be careful with my uniform, but get it packed. All my stuff. Then drive like hell to meet us where that helicopter is picking us up. If I’m going to the White House, I am damned if I’ll go bare-legged!”

KGB Headquarters was across the city square from the Institute. It was a drab brick building, in contrast to the Institute’s pillars and marble facade. Pavel Bondarev walked briskly across the square. It was a pleasant day, warm enough that he did not need an overcoat.

A new man sat at the reception desk in KGB headquarters. He looked very young. Pavel Bondarev grimaced, then shrugged. What cannot be cured must be endured. He had learned patience, and he forced himself to be still, although he was bursting with the news.

A long line of citizens waited in front of the reception desk. Men in ill-fitting suits, women in stained skirts and scarves, farmers, workers, minor factory officials: they all held forms to be signed, permission slips of one kind or another. Today there were not so many farmers; in fall there would be hundreds wanting to sell the produce from their tiny private plots.

Bondarev shook his head. Absurd, he thought. They should be working, not standing in lines here. But it is typically Russian, and if they didn’t stand in lines they wouldn’t work anyway. They’d just get drunk.

If there were not residency controls, everyone would live in Moscow. Once while visiting Washington he’d heard a song at an American’s party: “How you going to keep them down on the farm?” It was evidently a problem for the Americans as well as the Russians.

He walked past the line. A man at the head of the line, roundfaced like Boris Ogarkov, glared at him sullenly but didn’t say anything. Bondarev stood at the desk. Two men were at another desk nearby. He thought he recognized the one who was typing a report on a battered machine of German make. Bondarev wondered idly if the typewriter had been brought to Russia by the Wehrmacht. It was certainly old enough. Provincial establishments, even KGB, did not often get new equipment.

The reception officer ignored him as long as possible, then looked up insolently. “Yes?”

You will be that way, will you? Bondarev thought. Very well. Bondarev spoke quietly, but loud enough so he was certain that the men at the next desk could overhear him. “I am Bondarev. I wish to see the duty officer.”

The desk officer frowned. The man at the next desk ceased typing.

“What is the nature of your business?”

“If I had meant for you to know, I would have told you,” Bondarev said. “Now you will please inform the senior officer present that Academician Bondarev, Director of the Lenin Research Institute of Astrophysics and Cosmography, wishes to see him and that the matter is urgent.”

The receptionist’s frown deepened, but his face lost the insolent look. A full Academician would have powerful friends, and the Institute was important in their provincial city. The officer who had been typing got up from the desk and came over. “Certainly, Comrade Academician,” he said. “I will go and tell Comrade Orlov at once.” He looked down sideways at the receptionist, then left.

“I am required to ask,” the receptionist said. His voice was sullen.

He has not long held his commission as an officer of the KGB, Bondarev thought. And he has rather enjoyed having everyone act respectful, even fearful. He did not expect to find someone to fear.

“This way, Comrade Academician.” The other agent indicated a doorway.

As Bondarev passed through, the receptionist was saying, “How should I know he was an Academician? He did not say so.” Bondarev smiled.

The office was not large. The desk was cluttered. Bondarev did not recognize the officer at the desk, but he was certain he had seen him before.

“Yes, Comrade Academician?”

“I must use your scrambler telephone to call Moscow, Comrade Orlov. Party Third Secretary Narovchatov in the Kremlin. It is urgent. No one must listen. It is a matter of state security.”

“If it is a matter of state security, we must record—”

“Yes, but not to listen,” Bondarev said. “Comrade, believe me, you do not want to listen to this call.”

It took nearly an hour to complete the call. Then General Narovchatov’s voice came on the line. “Pavel Aleksandrovich! It is good to hear from you.” The hearty gravel voice changed. “All is well?”

“Da, Comrade General. Marina is well, your grandchildren are well.”

“Ah. Another year, Pavel. Another year and you may return to Moscow. But hard as it is, you must stay there now. Your work is needed.”

“I know,” Bondarev said. “Marina will be grateful that it is only one more year. That, however, is not why I have called.”

“Then?”

“I have called from the KGB station in order to use the scrambler telephone. The officer on duty is watching to see that no one listens. It is a matter of great importance, Nikolai Nikolayevich. The greatest importance.”

General Nikolai Nikolayevich Narovchatov put down the telephone and carefully finished writing his notes in the leather-bound book on his desk. Once in Paris a wealthy lady had given him a score of the leather books, full of blank pages of excellent paper. That had been long ago, long enough that his baggage had been searched when he returned, and the border guards had wondered what sinister messages were written on the blank paper until the superiors he travelpd with had become impatient and the guards wordlessly passed him through. Each book lasted nearly a year, and now only two were left.

He stared at his notes. Aliens. An alien spaceship was coming to Earth. Nonsense.