«I'm retiring. The others are gone. We won't use this place again. It'll be gone. Maybe now.

You write the book about all this fabulous stuff, I edit it, we'll grab the money and run.»

«But who'll believe it!?»

«No one. But it's so sensational, everyone will buy. Millions of copies. And no one will investigate, for they're all guilty, city fathers, Chambers of Commerce, real estate salesmen, Army generals who thought they made up and fought their own wars, or made up and built their own cities! Pompous freaks! Here we are. Out.»

They made it out of the elevator and the shack as the next quake came. Both fell and got up, with nervous laughter.

«Good old California, yes? Is my Rolls still there? Yep. No carjackers. In!»

With his hand on the Rolls doorframe, Gibson stared over at his friend. «Does the San Andreas Fault come through this block?»

«You better believe. Wanna go see your home?»

Gibson shut his eyes. «Christ, I'm afraid.»

«Take courage from the insurance policy in your coat pocket. Shall we go?»

«In a moment.» Gibson swallowed hard «What will we name our book?»

«What time is it and date?»

Gibson looked at the sun about to rise. «Early Six-thirty. And the date on my watch reads February fifth.»

«Nineteen ninety-four?»

'Six-thirty a.m. February fifth, 1994.»

'Then that's the title of our book. Or why not

Zaharoff add Richter for the earthquake Richter scale at Cal-Tech. Zaharoff/Richter Mark V? Okay?»

«Okay.»

The doors slammed. The motor roared.

«Do we go home?» «Go fast. Jesus. Fast.» They went.

Fast.

Remember Sascha?

1996 year

Remember? Why, how could they forget? Although they knew him for only a little while, years later his name would arise and they would smile or even laugh and reach out to hold hands, remembering.