Once more, for good measure, she attempted the Washington connection. The phone popped up an error message: SERVER UNAVAILABLE. Same message came up for any phone, video, or net connection outside the local Blind Lake loop. The only call that had gone through was to Ray’s own house, here in town — letting his daughter know he’d be late. Everything else had been incoming: Security, Personnel, and the military liaison.

Sue might have been worried if she’d been a little less tired. But it was probably nothing. All she wanted to do right now was get back to her apartment and peel off her shoes. Microwave her dinner. Smoke a joint.

The terminal buzzed again — according to the screen announcement, a call from Ari Weingart over at Publicity and Public Relations. She picked up. “Ari,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

“Your boss around?”

“Present but not keen to be disturbed. Is this urgent?”

“Well, yeah, kind of. I’ve got three journalists here and nowhere to put them.”

“So book a motel.”

“Very funny. They’re on a three-week pass.”

“Nobody penciled this into your calendar?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Sue. Obviously, they ought to be sleeping in the guest quarters in the Visitor Center — but Personnel filled those beds with day workers.”

“Day workers?”

“Duh! Because the buses can’t get out to Constance.”

“The buses can’t get out?”

“Have you been in an isolation booth the last couple of hours? The road’s closed at the gatehouse. No traffic in or out. We’re in total lockdown.”

“Since when?”

“Roughly sunset.”

“How come?”

“Who knows? Either a plausible security threat or another drill. Everybody’s guessing it’ll be sorted out by morning. But in the meantime I have to billet these folks somewhere.”