'Why did Zamyatin pick on you anyway?'

Isaacs paused. This could be crucial, if it weren't already on the tapes.

'I wrote a letter to Academician Korolev,' Isaacs said, 'describing my fears about the Novorossiisk.'

'You what?' Drefke almost shouted.

'Oh, for god's sake,' McMasters blurted simultaneously.

'You've got to see we're on the same side on this one,' Isaacs protested.

'But you can't go discussing Agency affairs with the top brains in the Kremlin!' Drefke said, exasperated.

'According to Mr McMasters, this wasn't an Agency affair,' Isaacs said.

'Well, any security matter then,' Drefke said, but he calmed down, granting Isaacs the point.

'I felt something had to be done,' Isaacs persisted. 'I sent a memo to Korolev similar to the one I gave McMasters, outlining the series of circumstances that led to my concern. Zamyatin saw the letter. I told you they're still worried about the Novorossiisk. That's what we talked about.'

'You talked about the Cosmos 2231 and our nuclear deterrent,' McMasters said meanly.

'Only briefly, and in a completely different context from what you'd like to believe,' Isaacs snapped. He turned to Drefke.

'Korolev has used my letter to argue that we did not initiate the Novorossiisk business. Zamyatin told me that my letter convinced the Soviets to keep a cap on the confrontation over the Cosmos. That's all we said about it. And Zamyatin did most of the talking.'

'So they're worried,' Drefke said.

'Yes, they are.'

'You still haven't told me what exactly happened at Nagasaki.'

'Pat Danielson assembled a variety of data which has shown that some force or influence is moving through the earth in a very regular way. I think that influence damaged the Novorossiisk, sank the USS Stinson which was sent by the Navy to investigate the phenomenon, and did the damage in Nagasaki.'

Drefke started to speak, but Isaacs continued intensely.

'We don't know what's going on: that's what frightens me. That's what has caused me to do all these things you think are so crazy. But this thing is dangerous. It's real. It's predictable. Pat Danielson predicted where and when there would be damage in Nagasaki. She has predicted a similar fate for Dallas in a little over two weeks. This thing, whatever it is, will keep on causing death and destruction until we determine what it is!'

Isaacs leaned back, spent.

Drefke tried to absorb this diatribe. He didn't understand at all. But Isaacs was either sincere and committed, or he was insane. Could his insanity be contagious, caught by the Russians? What the hell was going on? Was this a good man gone around the bend? Or was here an issue of great magnitude on which he could truly serve his President? He would have loved to kick the whole flung to McMasters, but he perceived that, in ways he did not yet fully comprehend, McMasters was part of the problem. Besides, the involvement of the Russians smacked of truly global issues, not simple internal bickering. The only good decision now was no decision.

'Mr Isaacs, I don't understand all that you have been trying to tell me. Not by a long shot. And the fact remains that there is a prima facie case against you for violating Agency regulations as well as good common sense.' He paused and picked up Isaacs's memo.

'But I think perhaps I should read this document of yours before deciding what to do about you and the others.'

The tone of dismissal hung in the air for a long moment until Isaacs and McMasters finally shuffled their chairs and got to their feet. There was an awkward moment at the door as they each tried to ignore the other, which prevented signals as to who should go first. Finally, Isaacs stepped back and gave a brief gesture. McMasters charged through. Isaacs waited until McMasters passed the outer doorway and then slowly closed Drefke's door behind him.

Drefke got up and walked to the window. He looked out for a long time, hands clasped behind his back. Then he took his seat and pulled the typewritten pages from the envelope Isaacs had left him. He began to read.

Robert Isaacs resigned himself to the fact that the situation was out of his hands. Under the terms of his partial suspension awaiting the outcome in Dallas , he could not engage in policy decisions, so for the next two weeks he busied himself with routine things neglected in the recent press of events. To his relief the confrontation with the Russians cooled. The fragile status quo held. On the final weekend before Dallas , he arranged for his daughter Isabel to stay with a friend and convinced Muriel to spend the time with him sailing on the Chesapeake.

Pat Danielson spent the two week period in an agonized limbo. She, too, went about her duties, but the upcoming event which would profoundly affect her career was never very far from her mind. Some mysterious force would push through the earth six hundred times, she mused, while she chewed her nails, waiting for it to hit Dallas. In a way, she was glad that Drefke had explicitly forbidden both Isaacs and her from going to Dallas , as well as from exercising any other connection to Project QUAKER. She recognized the great likelihood of futility, but knew that if the trip were not proscribed she would have gone to Dallas to try to see something, anything, that would give a clue to the force which would erupt there.

On the final Saturday she dragged her roommate, Janine, on a prolonged shopping trip and then to a movie. Sunday she could not shake the doldrums and spent the day in fretful listlessness. Monday evening she went to bed early, but tossed in a restless, unsatisfying sleep. Something in her kept tune, and she later found herself wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Without looking at the clock she knew that it must be nearly one A.M. An hour earlier in Dallas it was about to happen. She continued to stare in the darkness, straining to project herself into the scene. What would she see? What would it do? She felt completely halted in that prolonged state of painful anticipation, but then the alarm pulled her up from a deep sleep. She prised her eyes open. The world still looked the same.

'You ever been to Dallas before?' Glen Wilson asked his partner in a subdued voice.

The two men walked slowly, purposefully, down the street, eyes catching every facet of the subdued activity.

'Me? Nah,' replied Sam Spongier. 'Unless you count changing planes in the airport. You ever ride those little trolleys ?'

'Um. Yeah, couple of times. Kinda fun at first, no driver and all. Irritating, though, when they stop for no apparent reason.'

They skirted a dishevelled old man, slumped asleep against the wall, legs sprawled onto the sidewalk, brown bag cradled in his lap.

'I was just thinking,' Wilson continued, 'I've seen a few boots and hats, but except for the fact that it's damn awful hot, it's hard to tell where we are. I mean, look at this. Bars, strip joints, porny flicks. The only women you see that aren't hookers are with some guy hustling 'cm off somewhere else. Just a little seedy piece of anywhere, USA.'

'You're right about that,' Spangler agreed. 'They do move a lot of produce through here in the daytime, I guess.' He flicked a rotting cabbage with the side of his shoe. It rolled up against the barred storefront. Behind the bars were partitioned tables waiting the next day's yield.

'You're also right about the heat. Feels like I'm wearing a blanket. Told you we should've gone native, jeans and T-shirts. Would have fit right in and been a damn sight cooler than these suits.'

'Hey, better than that,' Wilson shot him a quick smile, 'I coulda dressed as a wine and sat around taking it easy and you coulda come in drag and walked the streets 'til something happens. You might've made a few bucks.'