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“And you weren’t. Damn it, you shouldn’t go off like that without telling me first. The light switches and the—”

  “That’s all you were worried about? The house?”

  Rob leaned toward her. “I’ve invested a lot of money in this place, in case you’re forgotten. You blithely waltzed out the door and left it to fall apart. Or be burgled. And that’s not all; now the lunatic fringe is making threats against me. They even set up an altar in Daggett’s Woods and burned me in effigy. Some of my employees took me out to see it: a scorched doll hanging from a tree branch. I tore it down and threw it away, but I got a letter saying they would burn the whole complex to the ground if I didn’t restore the nature reserve to the way it was intended.”

  The color drained from Nell’s face. “The children and I saw that altar, Rob. I had no idea…”

  “Of course you didn’t, you’ve never taken an interest in my business. This is just a small part of what I have to deal with. If I don’t get a handle on things PDQ you can wave good-bye to RobBenn and the lifestyle you enjoy so much. But I’m not going to roll over and play dead for anybody, believe me.”

  * * *

  The momentum of the Change was increasing. Reports of it came from every direction. Concluding an edited report of one day’s events in America, the commentator on the wallscreen reported, “In Maine the mannequins in a shop window dissolved, seeping out of their clothes; vinyl records in the collection of a symphony conductor in Seattle disintegrated; and at a Hollywood premiere the red carpet stuck to the soles of celebrity shoes and had to be scraped off.”

  “And your wallscreen’s about to fail,” Jack informed his aunt.

  * * *

  He called Gerry to relay the latest developments, concluding with, “The space agency’s reporting massive solar flares.”

  “They couldn’t be causing the Change, Jack. Solar flares are highly charged particles of energy that’re carried to the Earth by solar winds, captured by our planet’s magnetic field and safely conducted toward the poles. That’s what causes the northern lights. But … wait a minute. There is something that might be related. Absorbing high-energy electromagnetic radiation can cause the nucleus of something to change by ejecting a subatomic particle. It’s called photodisintegration. That could be another way of describing the destabilization of plastic. But why should it only happen to plastic?”

  Before Jack could reply Gerry said, “And frankly, buddy, I have a more pressing question. D’you think the Change could hurt a pregnant woman?”

  “Gloria’s pregnant!”

  “Not yet, but…”

  “Don’t worry, the Change isn’t hitting anything organic.”

  “Maybe not, but the psych department in the hospital is overrun with people on the verge of panic. I’m worried about my wife being in there.”

  “Doesn’t the hospital have adequate security?”

  “For normal situations, but not this. Have you been to the bathroom recently?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Toilet seats. South of the river they’re mostly wood to be fashionable, but in businesses and on the north side most of them are plastic. I’d guess the ratio is about thirty-seventy.”

  “You don’t mean…”

  “Yeah. First thing this morning most of the seventy percentile sat down on their toilets and stuck to the seats. It hurt like hell to rip their buttocks free, and the longer anyone sat the worse it hurt. People are flooding into the hospital. They called my wife to come in early.”

  Two faces on two AllCom screens gravely regarded one another.

  “This could be a helluva time to have a baby.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  Pandemonium descended on the Nyeberger household when the boys had problems with their computers. They were taking too long to come on and arbitrarily turning themselves off again. One was emitting a thread of noxious smoke.

  Amid howls of protest, the boys’ mother banished the machines to the garage. She could not placate her sons with replacements. When she called the local supplier she was told, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nyeberger, but we can’t guarantee any of our PCs right now. Try us again in … six weeks, maybe?”

  The Sycamore and Staunton Mercantile Bank was in a similar position. Their computers were becoming unreliable, beginning with the newest. Against his every instinct, O. M. Staunton was forced to close the bank while his staff tried to manage the accounts the old-fashioned way.

  Which hardly anyone knew how to do anymore.

  * * *

  What the Old Man disliked most was any departure from routine. His longtime housekeeper, Haydon Leveritt, was under strict orders to serve roast chicken every Sunday, chicken croquettes on Monday, Swiss steak on Tuesday, spaghetti and meatballs on Wednesday, broiled fish on Thursday, Manhattan chowder on Friday, and ham on Saturday. She allowed nothing to alter this schedule.

  Staunton could cope with the dissolution of toilet seats; when he was growing up his grandfather still used an outhouse. Shortly after the incident with the bank cards and pens he had arrived at the S&S with boxes of old-fashioned ledgers, reams of paper and scores of freshly sharpened pencils. The routines of business must be reestablished and maintained.

  But sheer determination was not enough.

  “Wall Street’s got jittery,” the Old Man confided to Bea Fontaine. “According to the news, fanatics are claiming to see visions ranging from choirs of angels to the end of the world.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she advised him.

  “Hell, I don’t believe anything I hear; not since the last election.”

  * * *

  The first thing Edgar Tilbury did every morning was check his personal outposts for further signs of decay. Eyes. Hands. Shoulders. Hips and knees. Everything still work? What about his back? Sunnavabitch was the worst. The most difficult action he performed was sitting up in bed. Get that far and he could make it the rest of the way, even with a brain still cobwebbed by sleep. The fuzziness would not begin to dissipate until after the second cup of coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain as strong as a mother-in-law’s tongue. Then he could organize. What to do and in what order.

  Hardest things first.

  While he drank the coffee he repeated the lecture he gave himself daily. Not going to put up with any nonsense. Everything has to keep on keeping on. No future in getting old. No future in not getting old either, but I’ve got some good years left.

  Let Ollie Staunton sock his money away in bank vaults. Putting machines in charge; machines don’t care. When we were growing up I thought he was a damned fool and I still do. When things go wrong—and every damn thing goes wrong sooner or later—I’ll be just fine. Had better sense than to connect myself up to something called the World Wide Web. That name alone should have been an indication of what could come down the road.

  Maybe I ought to pay a personal call on Ollie, give him a bit of friendly advice.

  Or maybe not. Ollie never took anyone’s advice.

  * * *

  When Jack Reece said it was good to be home, his aunt remarked, “If you married and settled down here you could have a home of your own.”

  “That’s not in the cards, so why keep bringing it up?”

  “What have you got against marriage, anyway?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he assured her, “it’s a noble institution. Don’t laugh. You may not believe this, but I’m really an old-fashioned guy. I believe marriage should include a commitment to monogamy. But monogamy is only three letters away from monotony. I won’t marry because I have too much respect for the institution.”

  “If you ever did marry, would you honor your vows?”

  “All of them,” he said solemnly.

  Bea knew Jack kept his promises—which was why he rarely made one. He was a rogue, but he was her rogue. She was quietly proud of his success with women. His virility reflected well on the family genes.

  “You went out to RobBenn the othe
r day and came back looking like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she said. “Is there a new girl in the office?”

  “Nothing like that; Robert Bennett is what put a smile on my face. It did me good to see that pompous bastard brought down a peg or two. People everywhere are having problems, but he thought he was exempt. Now he wants me to help pull his irons out of the fire.”

  “I didn’t know you had business dealings with him.”

  “Not business: I don’t ‘do business.’ I’ve acted as an agent for him on some deals, that’s all. Things I could do as a freelancer. You’d be surprised how many freelancers—some call them rogue agents—there are in the world. They’re involved in everything from import/export to equipping professional mercenaries. The days of having a pensionable job are long over, Aunt Bea. It’s more profitable to float free if you’re not averse to a bit of risk.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that, Jack. Is Robert Bennett doing something illegal?”

  “A lot of business is illegal one way or another.”

  “You think I don’t know that? I work in a bank, remember? Long before the internet came along, banks kept the most astonishing secrets.”

  * * *

  That evening Jack took his favorite suitcase off the top shelf in his closet and set it on his bed. One piece of luggage represented years of his life; years spent gaining the trust of strangers, acting on hunches, taking risks. The custom-made case contained those basics without which he never traveled; he could walk out the door with nothing else and go anywhere. The frame was steel, the covering was leather, lovingly burnished to a mellow glow. Subtle modifications had been made to the basic piece over the years, invisible to the casual observer. But no part of it was plastic.

  Jack stroked the leather with a touch of nostalgia. “Good times,” he remarked aloud. Then he hoisted it back to the top shelf.

  If I’m going to stay here for a while I better find another way to make a living.

  10

  At one end of the main waiting room in the Hilda Staunton Memorial Hospital a massive wallscreen extended from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. For the safety of patients and their families it was not interactive, and was tuned to the blandest programming available.

  Recently there had been an insistent demand for network news.

  As Gloria Delmonico entered the room to summon her next patient a commentator was saying, “The Change is being reported throughout Africa, the Antipodes and Asia, but it’s hitting hardest in the most technologically advanced areas. For once, the developed countries are on the front line of a calamity.”

  The word “calamity” sent shock waves through the room.

  A massive woman perched on a king-sized pillowcase filled with crushed ice gave a shriek of hysteria. By the time Gloria reached her side the woman was flailing her arms. One of her fists hit the psychologist squarely in the stomach.

  Lights flashed behind Gloria’s eyes. She heard a roar like the sea. She started to say, “How irresponsible…” Then the sea rolled over her.

  * * *

  At first Gerry could not understand the message from the hospital. The AllCom was spitting static. When he realized Gloria had been injured he ran to his car in the parking lot at RobBenn. As he roared through the front gate the guard called out, “Hey, you just got here!”

  “Wrong! I just left.”

  He found his wife in a private room, propped up on pillows and looking sheepish. “They shouldn’t have called you, I’m fine. One of the patients was hysterical, that’s all.”

  “You’re coming home with me as soon as they release you.” He took one of her hands in his. Her fingers were icy. “Are you sure you’re okay, Muffin?”

  “Better than okay, me and our baby both. She’s tucked up safe inside me, that little accident didn’t hurt her a bit.”

  Gerry’s heart gave a leap. “Our baby! Did they tell you it’s a girl?”

  Her smile filled the room. “Some things a mother just knows. But let’s keep it our secret for now, okay? I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  * * *

  By the time Gerry spoke to Jack again, Gloria was at home. Jack drove to their house with a large bouquet wrapped in florist’s paper lying on the seat beside him.

  “She’s in the bedroom,” Gerry said as he opened the door. “Go on in and I’ll fix us some coffee.”

  His wife was sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a book open on her lap. Through the window behind her Jack could see Evan Mulligan’s chestnut mare grazing in her pasture.

  Gloria greeted her visitor warmly. “You shouldn’t have bothered, Jack, but it’s sweet of you to bring flowers.”

  “Nobody ever calls me sweet. How’re you feeling?”

  “Embarrassed over all the fuss. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

  “That’s good, I guess—if your doctor says it’s okay.”

  “He does, and the hospital needs me. People are really…”

  “Spooked?”

  “Yes, some of them. Then there are the stalwart types who deal with whatever comes.”

  “That’s me,” said Jack.

  “I know; I wouldn’t expect to see you in my department. Sit down in the other chair and tell me what’s going on outside. Gerry doesn’t talk about it because he doesn’t want to worry me, and our internet’s down. That’s why I’m reading a book.”

  Her brown eyes were pleading with him.

  He tried to answer without conveying the unease he felt. “The media’s still treating the Change like some sort of freak show. I suspect the authorities are trying to keep a lid on things as long as they can, but rumors are flying. We should take them with a grain of—”

  “What’s happening, Jack?”

  “The Change has begun affecting computers.”

  “In Sycamore River?”

  “Everywhere,” Jack said bleakly.

  Gloria unconsciously clutched her book. “What’s next?”

  “We’ll probably lose our connectivity; perhaps the whole global network. Anything that depends on computers could fail, and that’s just about everything we rely on.”

  “Everything?”

  “A lot,” he amended, “but it won’t happen all at once, and in the meantime someone may figure out a way to stop it. Your husband thinks the Change may be attracted to differing molecular structures and is moving from one to another.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “Gerry knows a lot more about science than I do. I have some theories of my own, but—”

  “I can’t take this in, Jack.”

  “No one can, not yet.”

  From the doorway Gerry said, “Care to make a guess as to how much time we have before the real panic sets in?”

  Jack stood up and took the tray and cups from him. “I hope this is stronger than just coffee.”

  “My wife’s off alcohol for the duration.”

  “Sorry, I forgot. Here you go, Gloria.”

  Cradling the warm cup in cold hands, she looked up at Jack. “Can you answer Gerry’s question?”

  “Not until we find out who’s behind this.”

  “And how to undo the damage,” she added.

  Gerry sat down on the arm of her chair. “I don’t think it can be undone, Muffin, we’ll just have to find acceptable substitutes for what’s lost. Already there’s some experimentation with soft woods like pine, and especially willow. They can be flexible enough to do the job plastics do, but their reaction to heat is a problem. Plus wood’s organic and permeable, rather than inert, so there are situations where it can’t be used at all.”

  “Surely there are synthetics that—”

  “Most synthetics are made from petrochemicals,” Jack told her. “Even fabrics. That slipcover on your chair, for instance.”

  Gloria looked from one man to the other. “A hundred years ago nothing was synthetic and our grandparents got along just fine.”

  “That’s because they didn’t know what they were mi
ssing.”

  Jack was staring out the window. “Trillions of bits and pieces. A kid’s model spaceship and the guidance system for an intercontinental ballistic missile. We’re going to lose them all.”

  “Don’t forget about cars,” said Gerry. “Under the hood some now have enough electronic gadgetry to send a rocket to Mars.”

  A muscle twitched in Jack’s jaw. “I’m not going to stop driving my Mustang.”

  “It’s a classic car, isn’t it? Don’t they predate computerization?”

  “Just barely. How much do you know about cars, Gerry? They started using computers in them before the turn of the century. If mine was a vintage automobile like one of the 1950 Mercs, it wouldn’t matter.”

  Gloria spoke up. “So much medical equipment depends on computers too.”

  “Except bedpans, Muffin.”

  “Even bedpans. Their computers weigh output and report it to the nurses’ station.”

  “Too much information,” said Jack Reece.

  * * *

  Edgar Tilbury visited his wife’s grave every Sunday. He did not comfort himself with the thought that Veronica was looking down on him; he did not believe in an afterlife. But he went to Sunnyslope Cemetery in every sort of weather and sat on a wrought-iron bench a few feet from her headstone. Sometimes for only ten minutes but never more than an hour. Then he would drive home again, a long, silent drive into deep country.

  After leaving the cemetery that morning he saw the young woman. At least she looked young to him. She wore a poncho and carried a buckskin shoulder bag, and was standing by the bus stop.

  None of my business, he told himself.

  As he drove past he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her face.

  He slowed. Stopped. Backed up and lowered the window. “Want a ride?”

  She didn’t look at him. “No.”

  “Got it.” But he didn’t drive on. “You been to the cemetery?”

  “My mother’s buried there.”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Should I?” Still not looking at him.

  “I remember you,” Tilbury said.

  “Do you.” A statement, not a question. She was looking at him now. Warily.