But during this long night of too many questions and too few, answers, Lauren watched her idol become progressively quieter. The presence of beings from another part of the universe was something that the aging Lindstrom was having trouble accepting. Eventually, Lauren tactfully took over the meetings, moderating with the skill and presence the old man had first spotted in her at Harvard. The young grad student with the exotic looks had easily been the brightest in all the seminars he'd taught, and he'd been pleased when she accepted his invitation to become part of his staff after he was appointed Secretary General.

  The UN gatherings ended before dawn, and at Lauren's insistence, Lindstrom retreated to his office for a nap. Lauren could have sprawled on the couch in her own office, but she knew she'd lie there wide-eyed, stiff and listening. Instead, she bundled up in her coat and went up to the outdoor observation deck. For a long time she stood in the cold, staring up at the wash of spotlights against the belly of the dark alien bulk looming over her city.

  Slowly she became aware that the city beneath her feet sounded wrong. Wandering over to the railing, she looked down, expecting—but not finding—the light trails of cars, cabs, trucks, and buses. But only a few tiny gleams threaded their way through the street grid. New York was almost totally silent, as though crouching in fear.

  Lauren had always felt the self-confidence of a native New Yorker. She was a product of this odd urban mixture of cosmopolitan slick and rough-and-tumble crude. She felt a fierce pride in knowing her city could take on just about anything nature—or man—could throw at it, and come up swinging.

  Until now. Down below, the streetlights began to wink out as the sun tinged the bottoms of the clouds near the bridges between Manhattan and Brooklyn, magically turning their cables into a sparkling filigree. Lauren took a deep breath of the morning air and—she couldn't help it—stuck out her tongue at the alien ship. "Screw you," she whispered. "Don't talk—see if we care."

  She went back to her office, then gratefully poured herself a

  cup of coffee and picked up the phone. She dialed her father's

  number.

  "Dad? It's Lauren. I hope I didn't wake you, but I didn't know when I'd get another chance to call."

  "No, honey." Her father's voice sounded alert. "I've been up awhile. Slept a little, but not much. My guess is that there are gonna be a lot of tired people around the world today. How's it going at the UN?"

  Lauren stifled a yawn. "Calm, for the moment. They all lired themselves out making accusations they knew were wrong and pointless, just from force of habit. It could have been worse."

  There was a soft knock on Lauren's door. A young Indian |X)ked his turbaned head in."Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Stewart, but there is a meeting in ten minutes, and Mr. I.indstrom requests your presence."

  "Okay, Sanjay. Dad, I've got to go. Hang in there. I'll talk to you later."

  Almost two hours later, it happened.

  A pulsing tone beamed out from the huge spaceships— steady, unvarying, global. The pulsing signals sounded for several minutes.

  President Morrow was still at his desk in the Oval Office, but the television sets were back on and the room was crowded with people. His eyes—and all other eyes in the room—were on the multiple-screen TV console, watching as the network commentators tried to make some sense out of what was happening. From outside they could hear the pulsing tones being echoed from the ship overhead.

  "Turn Channel Nine up," Morrow said, and a staff member fiddled with the remote. "I've always liked Denise Daltrey. Basy on the vision, and she doesn't mince words."

  Denise's crisp, even tones filled the Chief Executive's office. ". . . and this literally unearthly sound continues to pulse from the alien space vessels, as it has for about five minutes now. Our correspondents around the world report that the—the beacon, for want of a better word—began at almost the same second from every ship. This morning we're lucky enough to have Dr. Isaac Asimov here with us in our New York studio. Dr. Asimov is, of course, a world-famous science authority and

  science fiction writer. He's the author of almost three hundred books on everything from black holes to the Bible—"

  "I think we would need a combination of the two to figure , out what's been happening to our planet since yesterday afternoon," Asimov said, directing his most charming smile at Denise. "And while I have indeed studied black holes and the Bible, I've never claimed to understand them fully—especially at the same time."

  She finally allowed herself a return smile.

  "Ah!" he said. "You can smile! You've been so grim since I came in here. I get upset when women react with grim resignation at my arrival. Resignation I can understand, but grim resignation—never!"

  Denise's mouth twitched as she looked into the camera. "We asked Doctor Asimov to come in to enlighten us, and he's also entertaining us—a double threat. But speaking of threats, Doctor, do you think we are in danger from these vessels hovering over our planet?"

  Asimov scratched thoughtfully at one bushy muttonchop sideburn. "Well, Denise, speaking from my perspective as a human, if they were going to do terrible things to us, 1 think they would have done them already. Why wait? It was apparent after the first ten minutes that there wasn't anything we could do to stop them. But in considering the possible motivations of alien beings, you have to remember that they may not have motivations that are comprehensible to us."

  He grinned at her. "What reasons can you think of to travel to another planet, Denise?"

  Denise looked slightly taken aback. "Trade? Commerce with other planets? Friendliness? War?"

  "All good reasons," Asimov said. "All reasons that we humans can relate to. But what about aliens who might have come here on a religious pilgrimage—they have it set down in their version of the Bible that they must visit this dinky little world every ten billion years or the universe goes kaput. So here they are!"

  Denise nodded. "I see what you mean. Their reasons might be reasons we can't even imagine," she said.

  "Right," said Asimov approvingly. "In a case like this, predictions are pretty useless—but fun. Until something else

  happens, I'll reserve judgment as to their intentions." He grinned and shrugged. "What else can I do?"

  Denise cocked her head, touching her hidden earphone. "What was that? Excuse me, Dr. Asimov, but I'm being told that something is—" She broke off, listening; then her calm tones sharpened with excitement. "Yes! It's a voice The first voice we've ever heard from another world. We're patching this vocal signal in so we can all hear it. It's being picked up on the international emergency frequency."

  She and Asimov both turned to watch the large monitor behind them. The view of the alien ship hovering over Manhattan was unchanged.

  A voice filled the speakers, a male voice, neutrally accented, shaking ordinary English. But there was a strange timbre to it, like the resonance of a multitrack recording. The voice was counting: "... fifteen, fourteen, thirteen ..."

  "I wonder if this represents a living being," Asimov murmured, "or an electronic voice ..."

  "Perfect English," Denise said, then, listening to her earphone again, continued, "No, I'm told it's in different languages all over the world."

  The control-room technicians were frantically switching feeds so that every three numbers heard by the viewing audience came over in different languages—French, Russian, Hebrew, Spanish, then back to English as the voice reached "one."

  There was a brief pause that seemed to last millennia, then: "Citizens of the planet Earth. We bring you greetings . . . and we come in peace. May we respectfully request that the Secretary General of your United Nations come to the top of the United Nations Building in New York at 0100 Greenwich time this evening. Thank you."

  The transmission ended and there was silence. Denise Daltrey found her voice. "0100 Greenwich time. That's eight rm. Eastern time. And of course we'll be there covering this story of . . . well, I was going to say the story of the century, Doctor Asimov, but this is really the story of all recorded history."

  "You're right," said Asimov, for once completely serious. "How many hours do we have to go?"

  Denise glanced at her watch. "Just about thirteen and a half hours."

  Asimov settled back in his chair, his grin back. "Want to see how many guesses we can rack up in that time as to why they're here? I'll bet I can think of stranger ones than you can."

  Denise began to chuckle, shaking her head, and held up a pleading hand. "No contest, Dr. Asimov—you're the expert in this field."

  Asimov shrugged. "In this situation, there's no such thing as an expert."

  Chapter 3

  The Visitors

  Olav Lindstrom splashed water on his face, then patted it dry, leaning close to the mirror in his office bathroom. His weathered skin and hands attested to the rugged outdoor life he'd loved back in Sweden, but his recent life here in the United States had left him little time for outdoor exercise. His only escape these days was cross-country skiing, which he did in Central Park when there was enough snow—but New York winters had been uncooperative for the past couple of years. I .indstrom frowned, noticing the sag developing under his chin and the way the lines etched around his eyes were now creeping across his forehead and down his cheeks.

  It wasn't only his appearance that troubled him—Lindstrom could feel his physical endurance flagging noticeably of late. He doubted that he'd be able to break kindling anymore, much less chop up a cord of wood—one of his proudest accomplishments in his native country had been keeping his own fireplace supplied each winter.

  He sighed, listening to Bach's delicate latticework of flute and harpsichord drifting from his office stereo and wishing he could sit down for just a moment. But a glance at his watch—it was 7:38 P.M.—assured him that he had to keep moving.

  Lindstrom reached for the crisp white shirt hanging on the doorknob. Lauren would be coming up to get him at any moment, and he had to be ready. This would be their final chance to talk before Olav went out to confront the unknown.

  He smiled a small, wry smile at his melodramatic turn of thought, but it was true—he, of all people on the face of this planet, would go down in history as the first human to talk to extraterrestrial beings.

  He slowly buttoned the shirt, smoothing it down, noting with detachment how frail his body felt beneath it. He'd been a big man before his heart attack eight years ago, and had easily filled out his elegant European-cut suits. But he'd lost thirty pounds on his doctor's orders, and then five more—and had gained none of it back. Now, no matter how carefully he had his suits tailored, they seemed to hang on him a bit. Lauren was always trying to fatten him up, but he seemed to have lost the hearty appetite he'd always been kidded about.

  Turning his collar up, Lindstrom slid his best striped tie around his neck as he heard a light tap on the office door. "Come in," he called.

  "Where are you?" It was Lauren's musical voice, a feature he'd always kidded her about. No matter how grave the crisis at hand, there was a bounce, an energy to Lauren Stewart's voice that was irrepressible. It gave even the most dolorous diplomatic pronouncements an undercurrent of optimism. Lindstrom smiled as he finished knotting his tie.

  He slipped on his coat and went out into the office. "How do I look?" he asked, pausing on the threshold.

  "You look fine, Olav. Very distinguished." Lauren was sitting on the modem pillow-back sofa, sipping at a mug of coffee. She was still wearing the charcoal-gray suit and light-gray turtleneck sweater she'd worn to work yesterday, but she still managed to look amazingly unrumpled. However, in the years he'd known her, Lindstrom had learned to look beyond the signs a casual observer would notice. Now he studied her face, noting the tight-pulled look of the skin about her mouth and cheekbones.

  "How are you, Lauren?" he asked, sitting down beside her, his eyes worried.

  "How am I?" Lauren laughed incredulously. "Olav, I've always said you're a saint, and now I believe it more than ever. You have to walk out there and represent Earth to the Martians—or wherever they're from—and you're worried about how I am?"

  Lindstrom shrugged. "Worrying about the welfare of one's Friends is a good way to stop worrying about oneself, I've always found. I keep telling myself not to be nervous, that bes ide some of the human beings I've met—and in my seventy

  years, I've met with Hitler, Stalin, and Mao—these people can't be such monsters . . ."He mused for a moment. "On the other hand, I've also met Einstein, Pope John, Mother Teresa and Albert Schweitzer."

  Lauren took his hands in hers, squeezed them, then, with an exclamation, began to rub them between her own. "Cold as ice Do you want some coffee?"

  "No time," he said. "Besides, it's just my nerves giving me away. Silly, isn't it?"

  Not at all. At least those people you mentioned were human beings. You'd read about them, seen their faces before you had to march out to meet them. If you weren't nervous now, I'd take your pulse to see if you were still alive!"

  He smiled at her. "Thank you, Lauren, for that little dose of much-needed common sense. Now I guess we'd better head for the roof. I must admit they've chosen a somewhat original place for a diplomatic encounter."

  High above the city, Roger stood On the catwalk above the central command of his vessel. Jennifer sat at her console, busily keying in characters in her native language. To a human familiar with ancient Hebrew or Sanskrit the characters might have appeared faintly recognizable, but to anyone else they would have been totally indecipherable. The Commander waited until his third-in-command officer completed a screen lull of entries before calling her name.

  "Sir?" she looked up, rose, and climbed the catwalk until she faced him. "Yes, Roger?"

  "Are you on shift, Jennifer?" Roger asked. "I remember seeing your name on the off-duty roster for this interval."

  Jennifer nodded, phrasing her English words carefully. "You're right, Roger. I'm technically off shift. I just wanted to finish up some of my personnel evaluations and recommendations."

  "Very commendable," Roger said. "You're not finding your additional duties in that area too taxing?"

  "No, sir. I wouldn't have requested them if I wasn't sure they'd fit into my schedule."

  "Well, I know Angela is glad to be rid of them. Personnel work is not her favorite occupation," Roger said, with just a hint of irony in his voice.

  Jennifer knew better than to betray satisfaction at her superior's dig at his second-in-command. "Where is Angela, Roger?" she asked. "Shouldn't she have returned by now?"

  Roger glanced at the bank of chronometers at the top of the main viewscreen. They showed the time in all of Earth's time zones, with one instrument displaying the time in their own units of measurement for any crew member who might still be confused by human time determination. "She should have arrived with the Supreme Commander by now," he said. "It's nearly 0100. She's probably taking every last second to make sure the Supreme Commander is comfortable—and to let hii know she's the one responsible for his comfort."

  This time, Jennifer had to look away from Roger in an effort to hide her amusement. The hatch behind them slid open and Angela appeared. "The Supreme Commander—John," she announced.

  The bridge crew stood, formally saluting, as John entered, acknowledging their greetings. He was shorter than Roger, with a head of thick gray hair and regular, pleasant features. He raised his voice in the dim silence of the bridge: "Please activate the Fleet communications intercom."

  Jennifer hurried to obey. When she nodded to him to continue, he spoke again. "In a few minutes I will formally begin our mission here on Earth. If not for your dedication to Our Great Leader's cause, we could not have reached our goal so successfully—I commend all of you for your efforts. I know you will dedicate yourselves to the completion of our task with the single-minded loyalty that enabled us to conserve our resources and undertake this vital mission. In the name of Our Leader, I urge all of you to rededicate your lives to that cause— the very preservation of our kind."

  He paused. "The duties of a Supreme Commander, as I am sure you realize, are complicated and numerous. Therefore I will be dividing my time among all the ships in the Fleet. In my absence I hereby designate Roger, the Commander of this vessel, to be my special diplomatic deputy in charge of dealing with United Nations officials as well as with the United States goverment. I am sure you will give him your full cooperation "

  He glanced over at Roger, who looked confident, pleased,and not the least bit humble. "Thank you, John," he said. "I know that I and all my crew will do everything possible to merit your confidence."

  I'm sure you will," said John. "Now I must excuse myself I have an important meeting to attend—a vitally Important meeting."

  Roger smiled faintly at the understatement.

  Damn," Denise Daltrey mumbled, not for the first time in the. past hour. "Damn, damn, damn—double damn!"

  Don't take it so hard, Denise," Sidney, the makeup man, counseled. "At least you got the studio anchor slot tonight. I hat's something."

  Yeah," agreed Denise glumly. "I get to sit in the studio and watch Kristine Walsh up there on the roof, where everything's happening. The story of a lifetime, and I'll see it secondhand, along with John Q. Public!" She shuffled her intro copy at the anchor desk while technicians checked lighting and cameras.

  "Don't know why you're so pissed," Sidney said, brushing minute amounts of blusher onto the newswoman's cheekbones.

  You couldn't pay me to get that close to monsters from outer space."

  "Pay? I'd have given a year's salary to get that story. It's the chance of a lifetime!"

  "You look a little tired—have you gotten any sleep since this all started?" Sidney asked, tactfully attempting to change the subject as he patted her forehead with a puff.