"Now, Gaston . . ." said Marie-Claire.

"Well, if he doesn't appreciate what he's got here . . ."

"I don't need this s.h.i.t," sneered Marc.

"Enough!" snapped Marie-Claire. "Enough."

"I hate you," said Marc. "I hate you both."

Gaston's mouth opened to reply, and then- -and then, suddenly, he was back in his office at CERN.

After reporting the news of all the deaths, Michiko Komura had immediately gone back into the front office of the LHC control center. She kept trying to phone the school in Geneva that her eight-year-old daughter Tamiko attended; Michiko was divorced from her first husband, a Tokyo executive. But all she got was busy signal after busy signal, and the Swiss phone company, for some reason, wasn't offering to automatically notify her when the line became free.

Lloyd was standing behind her as she kept trying, but finally she looked up at him, her eyes desperate. "I can't get through," she said. "I've got to go there."

"I'll come with you," said Lloyd at once. They ran out of the building, into the warm April air, the ruddy sun already kissing the horizon, the mountains looming in the distance.

Michiko's car-a Toyota-was parked here, too, but they took Lloyd's leased Fiat, with Lloyd driving. They made their way out of the CERN campus, pa.s.sing by the towering cylindrical liquid helium tanks, and got onto Route de Meyrin, which took them through Meyrin, the town just east of CERN. Although they saw some cars at the sides of the road, things looked no worse than they did after one of the rare winter storms, except, of course, that there was no snow on the ground.

They pa.s.sed quickly through the town. A short distance outside it was Geneva's Cointrin Airport. Pillars of black smoke rose to the sky; a large Swissair jet had crashed on the one runway. "My G.o.d," said Michiko. She brought a knuckle to her mouth. "My G.o.d."

They continued on into Geneva proper, situated at the westernmost tip of Lac Leman. Geneva was a wealthy metropolis of 200,000, known for ultra-posh restaurants and wildly expensive shops.

Signs that would normally be lit up were out, and lots of cars-many of them Mercedes and other expensive makes-had veered off the roads and plowed into buildings. The plate-gla.s.s windows on several storefronts had shattered, but there didn't seem to be any looting going on. Even the tourists were apparently too stunned by what had happened to take advantage of the situation.

They did spot one ambulance, tending an old man at the side of the road; they also heard the sirens of fire trucks or other emergency vehicles. And at one point, they saw a helicopter embedded in the gla.s.s side of a small office tower.

They drove across the Pont de l'Ile, pa.s.sing over the river Rhone, gulls wheeling overhead, leaving the Right Bank with its patrician hotels, and entering the historic Left Bank. The route around Vieille Ville Vieille Ville-Old Town-was blocked by a four-car traffic accident, so they had to try negotiating their way through its narrow, crooked, one-way streets. They drove down Rue de la Cite, which turned into Grand Rue. But it, too, was blocked, too, by a Transports Publics Genevois Transports Publics Genevois bus that had spun out of control and was now swung across both lanes. They tried an alternate route, Michiko fretting more and more with each pa.s.sing minute, but it was also obstructed by damaged vehicles. bus that had spun out of control and was now swung across both lanes. They tried an alternate route, Michiko fretting more and more with each pa.s.sing minute, but it was also obstructed by damaged vehicles.

"How far is the school?" asked Lloyd.

"Less than a kilometer," said Michiko.

"Let's do it on foot." He drove back to Grand Rue, then pulled the car over at the side of road. It wasn't a legal parking spot, but Lloyd hardly thought anybody would be worrying about that at a time like this. They got out of the Fiat and began running up the steep, cobbled streets. Michiko stopped after a few paces to remove her high heels so she could run faster. They continued on up the streets, but had to stop again for her to replace her shoes as they came to a sidewalk covered with gla.s.s shards.

They hurried up Rue Jean-Calvin, pa.s.sing the Musee Barbier-Mueller, switched to Rue du Puits St. Pierre, and hustled by the seven-hundred-year-old Maison Tavel, Geneva's oldest private home. They had slowed only slightly by the time they pa.s.sed the austere Temple de l'Auditoire, where John Calvin and John Knox had once held forth.

Hearts pounding, breath ragged, they pushed onward. On their right were the Cathedrale St-Pierre and Christie's auction house. Michiko and Lloyd hurried through the sprawling square of Place du Bourg-de-Four, with its halo of open-air cafes cafes and and patisseries patisseries surrounding the central fountain. Many tourists and Genevois were still p.r.o.ne on the paving stones; others were sitting up on the ground, either tending to their own sc.r.a.pes and bruises or being aided by other pedestrians. surrounding the central fountain. Many tourists and Genevois were still p.r.o.ne on the paving stones; others were sitting up on the ground, either tending to their own sc.r.a.pes and bruises or being aided by other pedestrians.

Finally, they made it to the school grounds on Rue de Chaudronniers. The Ducommun School was a long-established facility catering to the children of foreigners working in or near Geneva. The core buildings were over two hundred years old, but several additional structures had been added in the last few decades. Although cla.s.ses ended at 4:00 P.M., after-school activities were provided until 6:00 P.M., so that professional parents could leave kids there all day, and, although it was now getting on to 7:00 P.M., scores of kids were still here.

Michiko was hardly the only parent to have rushed here. The grounds were crisscrossed by the long shadows of diplomats, rich business people, and others whose kids attended Ducommun; dozens of them were hugging children and crying with relief.

The buildings all looked intact. Michiko and Lloyd were both huffing and puffing as they continued running across the immaculate lawn. By long tradition, the school flew the flags of the home countries of every student out front; Tamiko was the only j.a.panese currently enrolled, but the rising sun was indeed snapping in the spring breeze.

They made it into the lobby, which had beautiful marble floors and dark-wood paneling on the walls. The office was off to the right, and Michiko led the way to it. The door slid open, revealing a long wooden counter separating the secretaries from the public. Michiko made it over to the counter, and, between shuddering breaths, she began, "h.e.l.lo, I'm-"

"Oh, Madame Komura," said a woman emerging from an office. "I've been trying to call you, but haven't been able to get through." She paused awkwardly. "Please, come in."

Michiko and Lloyd made their way behind the counter and into the office. A PC sat on the desk, with a datapad docked to it.

"Where's Tamiko?" said Michiko.

"Please," said the woman. "Have a seat." She looked at Lloyd. "I'm Madame Severin; I'm the headmistress here."

"Lloyd Simcoe," said Lloyd. "I'm Michiko's fiance."

"Where's Tamiko?" said Michiko again.

"Madame Komura, I'm so sorry. I'm-" She stopped, swallowed, started again. "Tamiko was outside. A car came plowing through the parking lot, and . . . I'm so very sorry."

"How is she?" asked Michiko.

"Tamiko is dead, Madame Komura. We all-I don't know what happened; we all blacked out or something. When we came to, we found her."

Tears were welling out of Michiko's eyes. Lloyd felt a horrible constriction in his chest. Michiko found a chair, collapsed into it, and put her face in her hands. Lloyd knelt down next to her and put an arm around her.

"I'm so sorry," said Severin.

Lloyd nodded. "It wasn't your fault."

Michiko sobbed a while longer, then looked up, her eyes red. "I want to see her."

"She's still in the parking lot. I'm sorry-we did did call for the police, but they haven't come yet." call for the police, but they haven't come yet."

"Show me," said Michiko, her voice cracking.

Severin nodded, and led them out behind the building. Some other youngsters were standing, looking at the body, terrified of it and yet drawn to it, something beyond their ken. The staff were too busy dealing with kids who had been injured to be able to corral all the pupils back into the school.

Tamiko was lying there-just lying there. There was no blood, and her body seemed intact. The car that had presumably hit her had backed off several meters and was parked at an angle. Its b.u.mper was dented.

Michiko got within five meters, and then collapsed completely, crying loudly. Lloyd drew her into his arms, and held her. Severin hovered nearby for a bit, but was soon called away to deal with another parent, and another crisis.

At last, because she wanted it, Lloyd led Michiko over to the body. He bent over, his vision blurring, his heart breaking, and gently smoothed Tamiko's hair away from her face.

Lloyd had no words; what could he possibly say that might bring comfort at a time like this? They stood there, Lloyd holding Michiko for perhaps half an hour, her body convulsing with tears the whole time.

3.

Theo Procopides staggered down the mosaic-lined corridor to his tiny office, its walls covered with cartoon posters: Asterix le Gauloix here, Ren and Stimpy there, Bugs Bunny and Fred Flintstone and Gaga from Waga above the desk.

Theo felt woozy, sh.e.l.l-shocked. Although he hadn't had a vision, it seemed everyone else had. Still, even just having blacked out would have been enough to unnerve him. Added to that were the injuries to his friends and coworkers, and the news of the deaths in Geneva and the surrounding towns. He was utterly devastated.

Theo was aware that people thought of him as c.o.c.ky, arrogant-but he wasn't. Not really, not down deep. He just knew he was good at what he did, and he knew that while others were talking about their dreams, he was working hard day in and day out to make his a reality. But this-this left him confused and disoriented.

Reports were still coming in. One hundred and eleven people had died when a Swissair 797 crashed at Geneva Airport. Under normal circ.u.mstances, some might have survived the actual crash-but no one moved to evacuate before the plane caught fire.

Theo collapsed in his black leather swivel chair. He could see smoke rising in the distance; his window faced the airport-you needed a lot more seniority to get one that faced the Jura mountains.

He and Lloyd had intended no harm. h.e.l.l, Theo couldn't even begin to fathom what had caused everyone to black out. A giant electromagnetic pulse? But surely that would have done more damage to computers than to people, and all of CERN's delicate instruments seemed to be running normally.

Theo had swiveled the chair around as he'd sat down in it; his back was now to the open door. He wasn't aware that someone else had arrived until he heard a masculine throat-clearing. He rotated the chair and looked at Jacob Horowitz, a young grad student who worked with Theo and Lloyd. He had a shock of red hair and swarms of freckles.

"It's not your fault," Jake said, emphatically.

"Of course it is," said Theo, as if it were plainly obvious. "We clearly didn't take some important factor into consideration, and-"

"No," said Jake, strongly. "No, really. It's not your fault. It had nothing to do with CERN."

"What?" Theo said it as if he hadn't understood Jake's words.

''Come down to the staff lounge."

"I don't want to face anyone just now, and-"

"No, come on. They've got CNN on down there, and-"

"It's made CNN already?"

"You'll see. Come."

Theo rose slowly from his chair and started walking. Jake motioned for him to move more quickly, and at last Theo began to jog alongside Jake. When they arrived, there were maybe twenty people in the lounge.

"-Helen Michaels reporting from New York City. Back to you, Bernie."

Bernard Shaw's stern, lined face filled the high-definition TV screen. "Thanks, Helen. As you can see," he said to the camera, "the phenomenon seems to be worldwide-which suggests that the initial a.n.a.lyses that it must have been some sort of foreign weapon are unlikely to be correct, although of course the possibility that it was a terrorist act remains. No credible party, as yet, has stepped forward to claim responsibility, and-ah, we now have that Australian report we promised you a moment ago."

The view changed to show Sydney with the white sails of the Opera House in the background, lit up against a dark sky. A male reporter was standing in the center of the shot. "Bernie, it's just after four A.M. here in Sydney. There's no one image I can show you to convey what's happened down here. Reports are only slowly coming in as people realize that what they experienced was not an isolated phenomenon. The tragedies are many: we have word from a downtown hospital of a woman who died during emergency surgery when everyone in the operating theater simply stopped working for several minutes. But we also had a story of an all-night convenience-store robbery thwarted when all parties-including the robber-collapsed simultaneously at 2:00 A.M. local time. The robber was knocked unconscious, apparently, as he struck the floor, and a patron who woke up before he did was able to get his gun. We still have no good idea what the death count is here in Sydney, let alone the rest of Australia."

"Paul, what about the hallucinations? Are those being reported down under, as well?"

A pause while Shaw's question bounced off satellites from Atlanta to Australia. "Bernie, people are buzzing about that, yes. We don't know what percentage of the population experienced hallucinations, but it seems to be a lot. I myself had quite a vivid one."

"Thanks, Paul." The graphic behind Shaw changed to the American Presidential seal. "President Boulton will address the nation in fifteen minutes, we're told. Of course, CNN will bring you live coverage of his remarks. Meanwhile, we have a report now from Islamabad, Pakistan. Yusef, are you there-?"

"See," said Jake, sotto voce. sotto voce. "It had nothing to do with CERN." "It had nothing to do with CERN."

Theo felt simultaneously shocked and relieved. Something had affected the entire planet; surely their experiment couldn't have done that.

And yet- And yet, if it hadn't been related to the LHC experiment, then what could have caused it? Was Shaw right-was it some sort of terrorist weapon? It had only been a little over two hours since the phenomenon. The CNN team was showing amazing professionalism; Theo was still struggling to get his own equilibrium back.

Shut off the consciousness of the entire human race for two minutes, and what would the death toll be?

How many cars had collided?

How many planes had crashed? How many hang-gliders? How many parachutists had blacked out, failing to pull their ripcords?

How many operations had gone bad? How many births births had gone bad? had gone bad?

How many people had fallen from ladders, fallen down stairs?

Of course, most airplanes would fly just fine for a minute or two without pilot intervention, as long as they actually weren't taking off or landing. On uncrowded roads, cars might even manage just to roll safely to a stop.

But still . . . still . . .

"The surprising thing," said Bernard Shaw, on the TV, "is that as near as we can tell, the consciousness of the human race shut off at precisely noon Eastern Time. At first it seemed that the various times were not all exactly the same, but we've been checking the clocks of those who've reported in against our own clocks here at CNN Center in Atlanta, which, of course, are set against the time signal from the National Inst.i.tute for Standards and Technology in Boulder, Colorado. Adjusting for slightly incorrect settings that other people had, we find that the phenomenon occurred to the second at 12:00 noon Eastern, and-"

To the second, thought Theo. thought Theo.

To the second.

Jesus Christ.

CERN, of course, used an atomic clock. And the experiment was programmed to begin at precisely 17h00 Geneva time, which is- -is noon in Atlanta.

"As he has been for the last two hours, we have astronomer Donald Poort of Georgia Tech with us," said Shaw. "He was to be a guest on CNN This Morning, CNN This Morning, and we're fortunate that he was already here in the studio. Dr. Poort looks a little pale; please forgive that. We rushed him onto the air before he had a chance to go through makeup. Dr. Poort, thank you for agreeing to join us." and we're fortunate that he was already here in the studio. Dr. Poort looks a little pale; please forgive that. We rushed him onto the air before he had a chance to go through makeup. Dr. Poort, thank you for agreeing to join us."

Poort was a man in his early fifties, with a thin, pinched face. He did indeed look pallid under the studio lights-as though he hadn't seen the sun since the Clinton administration. "Thanks, Bernie."

"Tell us again what happened, Dr. Poort."

"Well, as you observed, the phenomenon occurred precisely to the second at noon. Of course, there are thirty-six hundred seconds in every hour, so the chances of a random event occurring precisely at the top of the clock-to use a phrase you broadcasters like-are one in thirty-six hundred. In other words, vanishingly small. Which leads me to suspect that we are are dealing with a human-caused event, something that was dealing with a human-caused event, something that was scheduled scheduled to occur. But as to what could have caused it, I have no idea . . ." to occur. But as to what could have caused it, I have no idea . . ."

d.a.m.n it, thought Theo. G.o.d d.a.m.n it. It had had to be the LHC experiment; it couldn't be a coincidence that the highest-energy particle collision in the history of the planet happened at precisely the same moment as the onset of the phenomenon. to be the LHC experiment; it couldn't be a coincidence that the highest-energy particle collision in the history of the planet happened at precisely the same moment as the onset of the phenomenon.

No. No, that wasn't being honest. It wasn't a phenomenon; it was a disaster disaster-possibly the biggest one in the history of the human race.

And he, Theo Procopides, had somehow caused it.

Gaston Beranger, CERN's Director-General, came into the lounge at that moment. "There you are!" he said, as if Theo had been missing for weeks.

Theo exchanged a nervous glance with Jake, then turned to the Director-General. "Hi, Dr. Beranger."

"What the h.e.l.l have you done?" demanded Beranger in angry French. "And where's Simcoe?"

"Lloyd and Michiko went off to get Michiko's daughter-she's at the Ducommun School."