The cantilevered pods on this level had been taken over by TV crews. Deere dawdled past one of them, where a stocky dark man with a Russian accent, no taller than Danny himself, was explaining how glad he was to be in America and how much he hoped for friendly cooperation in the peaceful exploration of space, and another where a rather good-looking young woman with a set smile was waiting for the cameraman to get his act together. Deere recognized her after a moment; whatever-her-name-was, the one who lost her spaceship at the same place where the kid had taken all his clothes off and first called Danny's attention to this Jupiter business. And then, with a delayed flash, he realized that he had just seen that kid talking to the doorman outside the hotel.
He found a staircase and headed for the Figueroa Street entrance, where Joel de Lawrence was waiting with the limousine. "Dummy! You didn't park the car!" Danny greeted him.
"You didn't tell me to—"
"Do I have to tell you everything? Here's what you do, dummy. First, go around to the other door. There's a skinny young guy there, blond beard, long blond hair, carrying a sign. Find out who he is and where I can get in touch with him. Then go up to the registration desk and pick up my credentials. Then just wait there till I get there."
"Sure thing, Danny. What'll I do with the car?"
It was blocking the interior lane meant for arriving guests, and already a taxi driver was leaning out his window to yell.
"You'll leave it there, what else?"
"I could put it in the garage on the way, Danny, that's right next to—"
"Would you quit arguing, for crap's sake? You know what they charge in that place? Go on, I've got something to take care of."
He turned his back on de Lawrence and headed back for the TV crews. It had just occurred to him that one of them might recognize him and ask for some kind of comment and then he could be on the six o'clock news. And when did a little extra exposure ever hurt?
The American Scientific Federation was no better than Number Two in scientific professional groups. The hoary old AAAS had twice the membership and five times the muscle. Still, ASF had pulled more than three thousand scientists to its annual meeting in Los Angeles, physicists and archeologists and mathematicians and economists. If was not the kind of place where you would expect to find the Danny Deere kind of person. So the first thing the reporter would ask him, Danny calculated as he moved genially toward the floodlights, was what he was doing there. Right. He began rehearsing answers. Maybe even a truthful answer. It struck him as strange, but it almost seemed as though the best thing he could say would be to tell them that he was interested—no, concerned; deeply concerned—in the serious threat that seemed to be confronting the city we all loved so—
No. Not fancy; just concerned. Maybe even scared?
It would come to him when the camera was on him, he thought comfortably, and assumed the expression of somebody who was fascinated by what this woman was telling the interviewer. The cameraman looked up from his handheld minicam and winked at him. Danny nodded back, satisfied. He had been noticed.
The interviewer was a black woman with a carefully trained conk, and she was saying, "I guess you've heard the report that it might have been a Russian beam weapon that destroyed your spacecraft, Miz Keating. What do you think?"
Rainy Keating's smile sharpened a little, as though she didn't like the question. "We haven't been able to establish a definite cause," she conceded. "So it's hard to discount any theory, but I would say that was about the most improbable." The newsperson started to pull the microphone back for a follow-up, but the days since Arecibo had taught Rainy some media skills and she kept on talking. "We do know some things for sure. The Newton-8 overheated. It wasn't hit by a meteorite, because the particle counter was still functioning; it registered zero. It wasn't some sudden malfunction in the plutonium power source, because the telemetry would have gone out before we could read the change in temperature. It wasn't one of the tanks of propulsion fuel somehow exploding; pressure in the tanks was stable right up to the last."
The interviewer reclaimed the mike. "Sounds to me a lot like the way a laser weapon is supposed to work," she commented.
Rainy shook her head. "No, that makes no sense. Why would anyone attack a harmless old spacecraft like Newton? There are dozens right in Earth orbit, where they're a lot easier to get to."
The woman said, "Maybe they picked it because it was so far away—their killer spacecraft could observe it, while we wouldn't have a clue." Rainy was starting to shake her head, but the woman added, "Which we still don't. Thank you, Miz Keating. At the American Scientific Federation meeting in downtown Los Angeles, this is your reporter." And the cameraman swung the lens around the lobby of the hotel for a cutaway. "Thank you," Rainy Keating said dismally, but she was only talking to one person now, not the television audience, and that one person was looking around for the next interview subject. Danny Deere smiled and moved inconspicuously closer. He perceived he was just about in time, because others had noticed the television crew; Senator Pedigrue's kid brother was strolling casually in their direction, and several middle-aged men in business suits, surely scientists of some kind, were standing awkwardly around, indicating by their bearing that their reluctance to speak in public could be overcome.
But they were all out of luck. The noise level in the lobby suddenly increased. Half a dozen objects appeared in the air, fluttering down from the levels above.
Somebody was having a good time. Danny scowled as a squadron of hotel security men hurried past, heading toward the stairs to the upper levels. The number of floating papers increased. They were paper airplanes, swooping and swirling among the hanging blankets of Christmas-tree lights in the tall lobby, kamikazeing the sliding elevator cabs, bringing little shrieks from the crowd down on the lowest lobby floor as they were dive-bombed without warning.
Danny caught one of the paper planes as it dashed itself against his belly. It was a leaflet, crudely mimeographed on bright orange paper. It said:
Californians!
Wake Up!
The end is at hand! The city of Los Angeles is doomed! Scientists say the end of our world is just around the corner. Now we are going to be punished for our sins. The shameful abuse of Women, Blacks, Gays, the Free Irish and the Palestinians has brought upon us our
TOTAL DESTRUCTION! * * *
Danny turned the paper over thoughtfully. There was nothing on the other side, but then there didn't need to be. He observed philosophically that the camera crew was scurrying to get this unexpected bonus on tape; there would be no quick interview with Danny Deere on the evening news this night. But what the hell, this was just about as good!
All over the Los Angeles basin the Santa Ana was searing the landscape like a blast from a hair blower. Up in the mountains, skiers lounged on the wide verandas of the lodges, looking mournfully up at the snow. It was pretty, and it was deep. It was also dangerous. Under the wind that curled up the slopes of the mountains the snow was softening. Every now and then an overhanging ledge slumped, cracked, broke loose and slid down a mountainside.
Tuesday, December 8th. 10:20 AM.
Dennis Siroca raced down the passage to the Arco Building bridge and collapsed on top of Saunders Robinson. They were both giggling. They clutched at each other, keeping an eye on the passage, and just as they were sobering up Robinson said, "Oh, man!" and they broke out again.