Martinson saw the planes: big lumbering four-engined jobs, six of them in two neat V’s.
“Goddamned news media,” the director grumbled.
“Six planes?” Martinson countered. “I don’t think so. They looked like military jets.”
“Didn’t see any Air Force stars on ’em.”
“They went by so fast. . .”
His words died in his throat. Through the window he saw dozens of parachutes dotting the soft blue sky, drifting slowly, gracefully to the ground.
“What the hell?” the director growled.
His heart clutching in his chest, Martinson feared that he knew what was happening.
“Do you have a pair of binoculars handy?” he croaked, surprised at how dry his throat was.
The director wordlessly opened a drawer in her desk, reached in, and handed Martinson a heavy leather case. With fumbling hands he opened it and pulled out a big black set of binoculars.
“Good way to check out the antenna without leaving my office,” she explained, tight-lipped.
Martinson put the lenses to his eyes and adjusted the focus. His hands were shaking so badly now that he had to lean his forearms against the windowsill.
The parachutists came into view. They wore camouflage military uniforms. He could see assault rifles and other weapons slung over their shoulders.
“Parachute troops,” he whispered.
“Why the hell would the army drop parachute soldiers here? What do they think—”
“They’re not ours,” Martinson said. “That’s for sure.”
The director’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean? Whose are they?”
Shaking his head, Martinson said, “I don’t know. But they’re not ours, I’m certain of that.”
“They have to be ours! Who else would—” She stopped, her mind drawing the picture at last.
Without another word, the director grabbed the phone that linked with Washington and began yelling into it. Martinson licked his lips, made his decision, and headed for the door.
“Where’re you going?” the director yelled at him.
“To stop them,” he yelled back, over his shoulder.
Heart pounding, Martinson raced down the corridor that led to the control center. Wishing he had exercised more and eaten leaner cuisine, he pictured himself expiring of a heart attack before he could get the job done.
More likely you’ll be gunned down by some soldier, he told himself.
He reached the control room at last, bursting through the door, startling the already nervous kids working the telescope.
“We’re being invaded,” he told them.
“Invaded?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Parachute troops are landing outside. They’ll be coming in here in a couple of minutes.”
“Parachute troops?”
“But why?”
“Who?”
The youngsters at the consoles looked as scared as Martinson felt. He spotted an empty chair, a little typist’s seat off in a corner of the windowless room, and went to it. Wheeling it up to the main console, Martinson explained:
“I don’t know who sent them, but they’re not our own troops. Whoever they are, they want to grab the telescope and send out their own version of The Question. We’ve got to stop them.”
“Stop armed troops?”
“How?”
“By sending out The Question ourselves. If we get off The Question before they march in here, then it doesn’t matter what they want, they’ll be too late.”
“Has Washington sent The Question?”
“No,” Martinson admitted.
“The United Nations?”
