trembled, then dove into the soft earth.
"Run faster, Jason!" the old man called to the boy. "Into the wind!"
The Mall in front of the Smithsonian was alive with tourists, bicyclists, joggers and kite flyers, all reveling in the sudden glory of Indian summer.
"Let Melaine try, Jason," said McShane, tugging his khaki shorts back up over his comfortable belly.
Pouting, the auburn-haired eight-year-old relinquished the string to his sister. Standing by his grandfather, he silently willed her to fail.
She almost made it, expertly holding the string between spread fingers, running toward the Capitol on fast, sturdy legs. Trailing up behind her, the dragon soared, dipped, soared, then barrel-rolled down out of sight into the Sculpture Garden's walled pit.
Melaine stomped her foot, saying something no nine-year-old of Bob's generation would have said.
McShane laughed and began winding in the string. "OK, gang, let's try again. Jason, would you kindly rescue Puff from the Rodin?"
The boy took off around the shrubs and down the stairs. He was back in a moment, empty-handed. "Grampa!" he said wide-eyed, pointing to where the string disappeared. "A man came out of the air! He's got a gun!"
McShane suppressed a sudden rush of fear. Finishing with the now-taut string, he set it down and searched his baggy pockets. "Maybe I'll talk with him while I get the kite. You two get something at the refreshment stand." He handed Jason a five-dollar bill. "Large lemonade for Gramps."
Bob gauged the line of tourists at the distant green-and-white kiosk—ten minutes. Long enough.
The kids ran off. Waiting till they were in line, McShane turned for the Sculpture Garden. Fool, he thought to himself. Why not just call a cop? Because you taught political philosophy most of your life, and know what Machiavelli meant by civic virtue. Besides, it might just be another of Jason's invisible friends, like the large talking toad that guarded the basement. Even if it was a S'Cotar, it was probably miles away by now.
Walking across the grass, he stumbled and fell. A jogger broke stride, helping him back to his feet. Clumsy old man, he thought, thanking the woman as she handed him his blackthorn Irish walker. Third time this week. Suddenly tired, he stepped carefully down the stairs and into the garden.
The man sat on a bench beside a Henry Moore, head buried in his hands, black uniform singed and torn. It was the weapon, though, that stopped Bob cold, heart pounding: a S'Cotar blastrifle, gleaming dully where it rested against the bench. There should be no S'Cotar weapons left on Earth, at least, not in human hands.
As Bob forced himself forward, the man staggered to his feet, raising the blaster. His were the wide, glazed eyes of someone in shock.
"John!"
"Bob!" The rifle dropped. "Home?"
"Home," said McShane. "But how?"
He moved quickly, catching John as the other fell. Only then did he see the blaster wound, a charred two-inch hole running from below the left shoulder and out the left side, where ribs had been.
"You!" he shouted at a young couple coming down the stairs, baby asleep in a backpack. "Get an ambulance." They stared at him.
"Across the street, in the Smithsonian. Tell the guard to call an ambulance. Move!"
The woman turned and ran up the stairs as the man hurried over. "What can I do?"
"Help me treat for shock. Prop his feet up."
"He ... he doesn't seem to be breathing."
Bob dropped to the ground, ear to John's chest. There was no heartbeat.
The baby started to cry.
Kneeling in the gravel, Bob moved through the measured cadence of CPR, not hearing the baby, not seeing his grandchildren. Until the medic gently shook his shoulder, there was nothing but his hands and lungs ministering to the dead.
9
DTrelna looked up from his desk complink. "I really hate this, H'Nar," he said to L'Wrona, sitting in front of the desk. "Had I known when they gave me these"—he tapped the stylized, four-pointed silver star on each collar—
"Run faster, Jason!" the old man called to the boy. "Into the wind!"
The Mall in front of the Smithsonian was alive with tourists, bicyclists, joggers and kite flyers, all reveling in the sudden glory of Indian summer.
"Let Melaine try, Jason," said McShane, tugging his khaki shorts back up over his comfortable belly.
Pouting, the auburn-haired eight-year-old relinquished the string to his sister. Standing by his grandfather, he silently willed her to fail.
She almost made it, expertly holding the string between spread fingers, running toward the Capitol on fast, sturdy legs. Trailing up behind her, the dragon soared, dipped, soared, then barrel-rolled down out of sight into the Sculpture Garden's walled pit.
Melaine stomped her foot, saying something no nine-year-old of Bob's generation would have said.
McShane laughed and began winding in the string. "OK, gang, let's try again. Jason, would you kindly rescue Puff from the Rodin?"
The boy took off around the shrubs and down the stairs. He was back in a moment, empty-handed. "Grampa!" he said wide-eyed, pointing to where the string disappeared. "A man came out of the air! He's got a gun!"
McShane suppressed a sudden rush of fear. Finishing with the now-taut string, he set it down and searched his baggy pockets. "Maybe I'll talk with him while I get the kite. You two get something at the refreshment stand." He handed Jason a five-dollar bill. "Large lemonade for Gramps."
Bob gauged the line of tourists at the distant green-and-white kiosk—ten minutes. Long enough.
The kids ran off. Waiting till they were in line, McShane turned for the Sculpture Garden. Fool, he thought to himself. Why not just call a cop? Because you taught political philosophy most of your life, and know what Machiavelli meant by civic virtue. Besides, it might just be another of Jason's invisible friends, like the large talking toad that guarded the basement. Even if it was a S'Cotar, it was probably miles away by now.
Walking across the grass, he stumbled and fell. A jogger broke stride, helping him back to his feet. Clumsy old man, he thought, thanking the woman as she handed him his blackthorn Irish walker. Third time this week. Suddenly tired, he stepped carefully down the stairs and into the garden.
The man sat on a bench beside a Henry Moore, head buried in his hands, black uniform singed and torn. It was the weapon, though, that stopped Bob cold, heart pounding: a S'Cotar blastrifle, gleaming dully where it rested against the bench. There should be no S'Cotar weapons left on Earth, at least, not in human hands.
As Bob forced himself forward, the man staggered to his feet, raising the blaster. His were the wide, glazed eyes of someone in shock.
"John!"
"Bob!" The rifle dropped. "Home?"
"Home," said McShane. "But how?"
He moved quickly, catching John as the other fell. Only then did he see the blaster wound, a charred two-inch hole running from below the left shoulder and out the left side, where ribs had been.
"You!" he shouted at a young couple coming down the stairs, baby asleep in a backpack. "Get an ambulance." They stared at him.
"Across the street, in the Smithsonian. Tell the guard to call an ambulance. Move!"
The woman turned and ran up the stairs as the man hurried over. "What can I do?"
"Help me treat for shock. Prop his feet up."
"He ... he doesn't seem to be breathing."
Bob dropped to the ground, ear to John's chest. There was no heartbeat.
The baby started to cry.
Kneeling in the gravel, Bob moved through the measured cadence of CPR, not hearing the baby, not seeing his grandchildren. Until the medic gently shook his shoulder, there was nothing but his hands and lungs ministering to the dead.
9
DTrelna looked up from his desk complink. "I really hate this, H'Nar," he said to L'Wrona, sitting in front of the desk. "Had I known when they gave me these"—he tapped the stylized, four-pointed silver star on each collar—
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