"And if Jerry Conklin calls, be sure someone tells him happened. He was to be my date tonight. Promise."
"I promise," said Garrison, handing her the money.
He lifted the receiver and said, "Some last minute details, Frank, that needed taking care of. You heard? I'll have someone up there by six o'clock or so. I'll ask them to look you up. But how come? You have a paper of your own. Why give this all to us?"
"Today was my press day," said Norton. "Won't publish again until this time next week. This kind of news doesn't wait. I wanted to give you a jump on it. A couple of state patrol cars came roaring into town just a few minutes ago. Otherwise everything's the same."
"I wonder if you'd mind keeping us filled in," asked Garrison, "until our people get there. Something happens, just give us a call."
"Be glad to," Norton said.
4. WASHINGTON, D.C
It had been a rough day. The press, at the early afternoon briefing, had been out for blood. Principally, the questions had had to do with the movement by the Native American Association for the return to the federated tribes of the Black Hills of South Dakota and the Montana Bighorn region, although there had been considerable sniping about the energy situation, centered on the administration's proposal to develop a southwestern desert solar energy system and its advocacy of substantial funds for research into a cryogenic transmission system. The press had stormed out considerably indignant at his unsatisfactory answers, but, David Porter told himself, that was not unusual. For the past several months, the press, in general, had been either enraged or disgusted at him. Any day now, he felt sure, there would be a move by some factions of the media to get him canned.
A hush hung over the pressroom office, scarcely broken by the teletype machines ranged against the wall, chuckling among themselves as they continued to spew out the doings of the world. Marcia Langley, his assistant, was gathering up and putting away, getting ready to leave for the day. The telephone console on Marcia's desk was quiet; for the first time in the day no lights were blinking, signaling incoming calls. This was the ~aim of the news-gathering period. The last afternoon editions had gone to press, the morning editions were being readied for the presses.
Shadows were beginning to creep into the room. Porter put out a hand and turned on his desk lamp. The light revealed the clutter of papers. Looking at them, he groaned. The clock on the wall said it was almost 5:30. He bad promised to pick up Alice at 7:30 and that left him little time to get through with his paperwork. There was a new eating place out in Maryland that some of Alice's friends had been recommending, with Alice mentioning it off and on for the past several weeks. Tonight, they planned to go there. He relaxed in his chair and thought about Alice Davenport. Her old man, the senator, and Porter had never gotten along too well, but, so far, the old man had raised no objection to their seeing one another. Which, Porter thought, was rather decent of the old buzzard. Despite her parentage, however, Alice was all right. She was a lot of fun, bright and cheerful, well-informed, a good conversationalist. Except that, at times, she had the unfortunate tendency to engage in long and partisan discussion of her currently favorite social enthusiasm. Right at the moment, it was the Indian claim to the Black Hills and the Bighorn, which she passionately believed should be returned to the federated tribes. A few months earlier, it had been the blacks of South Africa. Which all came, Porter told himself dourly, from too good an education in exactly the wrong disciplines. She didn't always talk about these things and tonight perhaps she wouldn't. In the last few months, they had spent some happy times together, for Alice, when she left off her crusader togs, was a good companion.
It wouldn't take more than half an hour or so, he estimated, if he really applied himself, to get his desk at least haphazardly cleared off. That would give him time to get home, get showered and shaved, and change his clothes. For once, he promised himself, he'd pick Alice up on time. But, first, he needed a cup of coffee.
He rose and started across the room.
"Do you know," he asked Marcia, "if there's any coffee left out in the lounge?"
"There should be," she told him. "There might be some sandwiches left but they will be stale."
He grumbled at her. "All I need is a cup of coffee."
He was halfway across the room when one of the teletype machines came to sudden, insane life. A bell rang loudly and insistently, clamoring for attention.
He turned about and went swiftly back across the room. It was Associated Press, he saw. He came up to the machine, grasped each side of it with his hands. The printer, blurring across the paper, was typing a string of bulletins.
Then: BULLETIN — LARGE OBJECT REPORTED TO HAVE FALLEN FROM THE SKY IN MINNESOTA.
The machine stopped, the printer quivering.
"What is it?" Marcia asked, standing at his shoulder.
"I don't know," said Porter. "Perhaps a meteorite."
He said to the machine, "Come on. Come on. Tell us what it
is.
The telephone on his desk shrilled at them.
Marcia took a step or two and picked it up.
"All right, Grace," she said. "I'll tell him."
The teletype came to life: WHAT MAY BE OUR FIRST VISITOP.
PROM OUTER SPACE LANDED TODAY NEAR THE TOWN OF LONE PINE IN NORTHERN MINNESOTA.
At his elbow, Marcia said, "That was Grace on the line. The President wants to see you.
Porter nodded and turned away from the machine. Bells on other machines began to ring, but he walked away, heading for the door and going the few steps down the corridor.
As he came into the outer office, Grace nodded at the door. "You're to go right in," she said.
"What is it, Grace?"
"I don't really know. He's talking to the army chief of staff. Something about a new satellite that has been discovered."
Porter strode across the office, knocked on the inner door, then turned the knob and went in.
President Herbert Tame was hanging up the phone. He motioned Porter to a chair.