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unters inside； hefty boys all three； gawking at the helicopters and the double…timing soldiers in their green coveralls。 Gawking at the guns； mostly。 Vietnam es to northern Maine； praise God。 Soon they would join the others in the Holding Area。
Half a dozen men approached as the Navigator pulled up behind the bus； with its stickers reading BLUE DEVIL PRIDE and THIS VEHICLE STOPS AT ALL RR CROSSINGS。 Three lawyers or bankers with their own cholesterol problems and fat stock portfolios； lawyers or bankers pretending to be good old boys； under the impression （of which they would soon be disabused） that they were still in an America at peace。 Soon they would be in the barn （or the corral； if they craved fresh air）； where their Visa cards would not be honored。 They would be allowed to keep their cell phones。 They wouldn't work this far up in the willywags； but hitting REDIAL might keep them amused。
'You plugged in tight？' Kurtz asked。
'I think so； yes。'
'Still a quick study？'
Owen shrugged。
'How many people in the Blue Zone altogether； Owen？'
'We estimate eight hundred。 No more than a hundred in Zones Prime A and Prime B。'
That was good； assuming no one slipped through。 In terms of possible contamination； a few slips wouldn't matter … the news； at least so far； was good on that score。 In terms of information management； however； it would not be good at all。 It was hard to ride a phooka horse these days。 Too many people with videocams。 Too many TV station helicopters。 Too many watching eyes。
Kurtz said； 'e inside the store。 They're setting me up a 'Bago； but it's not here yet。'
'Un momento；' Underhill said； and dashed up the steps of the bus。 When he came back down； he had a grease…spotted Burger King sack in his hand and a tape recorder over his shoulder on a strap。
Kurtz nodded toward the bag。 'That stuff'll kill you。'
'We're starring in The War of the Worlds and you're worried about high cholesterol？'
Behind them； one of the newly arrived mighty hunters was saying he wanted to call his lawyer； which probably meant he was a banker。 Kurtz led Underhill into the store。 Above them； the flashlights were back； running their glow over the bottoms of the clouds； jumping and dancing like animated characters in a Disney cartoon。
3
Old Man Gosselin's office smelled of salami； cigars； beer； Musterole； and sulfur … either farts or boiled eggs； Kurtz reckoned。 Maybe both。 There was also a smell； faint but discernible； of ethyl alcohol。 The smell of them。 It was everywhere up here now。 Another man might have been tempted to ascribe that smell to a bination of nerves and too much imagination； but Kurtz had never been overburdened with either。 In any case； he did not believe the hundred or so square miles of forestland surrounding Gosselin's Country Market had much future as a viable ecosystem。 Sometimes you just had to sand a piece of furniture down to the bare wood and start again。
Kurtz sat behind the desk and opened one of the drawers。 A cardboard box with CHEM/U。S。/IO UNITS stamped on it lay within。 Good for Perlmutter。 Kurtz took it out and opened it。 Inside were a number of small plastic masks； the transparent sort that fitted over the mouth and nose。 He tossed one to Underhill and then put one on himself； quickly adjusting the elastic straps。
'Are these necessary？' Owen asked。
'We don't know。 And don't feel privileged； in another hour； everyone is going to be wearing them。 Except for the John Q's in the Holding Area； that is。'
Underhill donned his mask and adjusted the straps without further ment。 Kurtz sat behind the desk with his head leaning back against the latest piece of OSHA paperwork （post it or die） taped to the wall behind him。
'Do they work？' Underhill's voice was hardly muffled at all。 The clear plastic did not fog with his breathing。 It seemed to have no pores or filters； but he found he could breathe easily enough。
'They work on Ebola； they work on anthrax； they work on the new super…cholera。 Do they work on Ripley？ Probably。 If not； we're tucked； soldier。 In fact； we may be tucked already。 But the clock is running and the game is on。 Should I hear the tape you've doubtless got in that thing over your shoulder？'
'There's no need for you to hear all of it； but you ought to taste； I think。'
Kurtz nodded； made a spinning motion in the air with his forefinger Oike an ump signalling a home run； Owen thought）； and leaned back further in Gosselin's chair。
Underhill unslung the tape recorder； set it on the desk facing
Kurtz； and pushed PLAY。 A toneless robot voice said： 'NSA radio intercept。 Multiband。 62914A44。 This material is classified top secret。 Time of intercept 0627； November fourteen； two…zero…zero…one。 Intercept recording begins after the tone。 If you are not rated Security 91 Clearance One； please press STOP now。'
'Please；' Kurtz said； nodding。 'Good。 That'd stop most unauthorized personnel； don't you think？'
There was a pause； a two…second beep； then a young woman's voice said： 'One。 Two。 Three。 Please don't hurt us。 Ne tious blessez pas。' A two…second silence； and then a young man's voice said。 'Five。 Seven。 Eleven。 We are helpless。 Nous sommes sans défense。 Please don't hurt us； we are helpless。 Ne nous faites…'
'By God； it's like a Berlitz language lesson from the Great Beyond；' Kurtz said。
'Recognize the voices？' Underhill asked。
Kurtz shook his head and put a finger to his lips。
The next voice was Bill Clinton's。 'Thirteen。 Seventeen。 Nineteen。' In Clinton's Arkansas accent； the last one came out Nahnteen。 'There is no infection here。 Il n'y a pas d'infection ici。' Another two…second pause； and then Tom Brokaw spoke from the tape recorder。 'Twenty…three。 Twenty…seven。 Twenty…nine。 We are dying。 On se meurt； on crève。 We are dying。'
Underhill pushed STOP。 'In case you wondered； the first voice is Sarah Jessica Parker； an actress。 The second is Brad Pitt。'
'Who's he？'
'An actor。'
'Uh…huh。'
'Each pause is followed by another voice。 All the voices are or would be recognizable to large segments of the people in this area。 There's Alfred Hitchcock； Paul Harvey； Garth Brooks； Tim Sample … he's a Maine…style humorist； very popular … and hundreds of others； some of which we haven't identified。'
'Hundreds of others？ How long did this intercept last？'
'Strictly speaking； it's not an intercept at all but a clear…band transmission which we have been jamming since 0800。 Which means a bunch of it got out； but we doubt if anyone who picked it up will have understood much of it。 And if they do…' Underhill gave a little What can you do shrug。 'It's still going on。 The voices appear to be real。 The few voiceprint parisons that were run are identical。 Whatever else they are； these guys could put Rich Little out of business。'
The whup…whup…whup of the helicopters came clearly through the walls。 Kurtz could feel it as well as hear it。 Through the boards； through the OSHA poster； and from there into the gray meat that was mostly water； telling him to e on e on e on； hurry up hurry up hurry up。 His blood responded to it； but he sat quietly； looking at Owen Underhill。 Thinking about Owen Underhill。 Make haste slowly； that was a useful saying。 Especially when dealing with folks like Owen。 How's your groin； indeed。
You fucked with me once； buck； Kurtz thought。 Maybe didn't cross my line； but by God； you scuffed at it； didn't you？ Yes； I think so。 And I think you'll bear watching。
'Same four messages over and over；' Underhill said； and ticked them off on the fingers of his left hand。 'Don't hurt us。 We're helpless。 There's no infection here。 The last one…'
'No infection；' Kurtz mused。 'Huh。 They've got their nerve； don't they？'
He had seen pictures of the reddish…gold fuzz growing on all the trees around Blue Boy。 And on people。 Corpses； mostly； at least so far。 The techs had named it Ripley fungus； after the tough broad Sigourney Weaver had played in those space movies。 Most of them were too young to remember the other Ripley； who had done the 'Believe It or Not' feature in the newspapers。 'Believe It or Not' was pretty much gone； now