The people awoke confused. Why would the Civil Defense authorities alert them at two-thirty Sunday morning?

What was it? A tidal wave? Nuclear war? A drowning movie star?

Thoughts both of catastrophe and absurdity raced through the sleepy minds of the islanders as the men, women and children forced themselves to leave homes on the streets and hillsides of Avalon and dutifully brave the chill air. Neighbors gathered in the night in groups, questioning one another. No one had answers.

"Wow, man," Jack Webster smiled, blowing smoke at the ceiling. "It's the end of the world. It's the big Number Three. It's a super-nuke, coming down at ten thousand miles an hour. It's got my name on it!" He took another long drag on the hand-rolled cigarette, exhaling marijuana smoke. "There I go, up in smoke."

Chris Davis laughed, leaning back in the overstuffed chair. He turned on the radio. "That isn't the way it is. All nukes are addressed 'To Whom It May Concern.' You, me, all of us."

"Tell me about it, college boy," Jack muttered lazily.

Chris spun the radio dial, passed several mainland stations. He found the frequency he wanted, but there was only static. "Hey, there's nothing on KCAT."

"There's never anything on KCAT."

"It's just noise. Listen. What's going on, I wonder?" Christ tuned in one of the Los Angeles news stations. The announcer droned on with the standard bad news. "Nothing special on the mainland stations..."

Another young man, Roger Davis, went to the window of the garage apartment that he shared with Chris. They were cousins, and Roger had the same wide surfer-shoulders as Chris, and almost the same features and long-limbed build. But he had a tan that Chris would never equal. Roger was a mulatto teenager the color of coffee with cream. His tightly curling hair was an almost orange blond.

Hanging his head out the window, he could look down the driveway, past his aunt and uncle's house, to the street. He saw groups of people milling about, talking.