“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister, but it isn’t my place to tell you what to say to the media. Perhaps you should confer with our MEDCON folks. . . . Media Control, yes. Excuse me, can I put you on hold? I have another call . . .
“Hello, Mr. President. How is the golf game? . . . Yes, it is quite an extraordinary development. . . . Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr. President, but I don’t think we need the U.S. military, not at this juncture. Would you excuse me for a moment? I have the British PM on hold . . . Thank you.
“Are you there, Mr. Prime Minister? . . . I would tell the media the current weather patterns are an aberration due to global warming and leave it at that. They adore global warming, you know. . . . What was that? . . . What’s the size of basketballs? . . . Hail? Well, I would advise the public to stay indoors. Excuse me, can I put you on hold again?
“No, Mr. President, stealth bombers would be quite useless, I’m afraid. . . . Well, that depends on what you mean by the term ‘contained.’ SATCOM has them pegged in one location in the Himalayas. . . . Yes, of course we will keep you posted. . . . Thank you, Mr. President, I will . . . Yes, we do have a plan. . . . Would you excuse me for a moment?”
He stared at me through the entire conversation, tapping one foot impatiently as he talked, running a hand through his frizzy white hair. Maybe that’s why it stood every which way.
“Mr. Prime Minister, are you there? I’m not going to argue with you. . . . Oh, indeed I think the public would accept the global warming cover, even if they are the size of Volkswagens—excuse me, did you say the size of Volkswagens? . . . Oh, dear. Well, it’s rather like the Blitz, isn’t it? Hello, hello? Damn, lost him. Mr. President, are you still . . . ?”
He shook his head in frustration, and the hair whipped about like a white tornado spinning around his head.
He ripped the headset off and shoved it toward Abigail Smith.
“Take this accursed thing, Smith. I’m sick to death of politicians!”
He stood over me, smiling down with teeth not nearly as bright nor as straight as Abigail Smith’s.
“Alfred, this is Dr. François Merryweather,” she said. “Director of OIPEP.”
“I’m Alfred Kropp,” I said.
“I know who you are. And I am more than relieved to know that you know who you are.”
“That’s about all I know,” I said.
“Baby steps, Alfred! Baby steps! How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time!”
“What’s the matter with the weather?” I asked.
“They have drawn a shroud over the earth,” Operative Nine said.
“Really, must you always be so lugubrious, Nine? Talk about drawing shrouds! My chest always hurts around you, the atmosphere is so thick with melancholy.”
“I will strain to be jollier, Director.”
“Jolliness cannot be strained at, Nine. Look at those abysmal circus clowns. So, Alfred, here you are, quite safe, though not quite sound. However, the doctor assured me we can expect a full recovery. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you must not hesitate to let us know. Is there anything you need right now?”
“Yes,” I said. “My mom. I want my mom.”
He looked at Abigail Smith, who shrugged.
“You said anything at all,” I said.
“I’m afraid we’re fresh out of mothers here. However, perhaps you might like something to eat? What is your favorite food? Pizza? Hamburger? Perhaps a taco? Or ice cream. What is your favorite flavor?”
“I don’t want any of your freakin’ ice cream! I want to go home!” I was starting to lose it again.
“Alfred,” Dr. Smith said.
A loud buzzer interrupted her, followed by a man’s voice from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room.
“Dr. Merryweather, I think you’d better get down here.”
“Down where?” Merryweather asked.
“The morgue.”