Durand sneezed. “This damn cold is driving me right up Alongside Night
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the wall. Do you know of anything for clogged sinuses?”
Elliot got out as fast as possible.
A brisk fifteen-minute walk over to Broadway and eight blocks up through the garment district—business as usual—
brought them to Times Square; the New York Times offices were a block farther up on Forty-third Street. Elliot sensed something incongruous but could not quite put his finger on it. Then he knew.
The news on the Oracle was gone.
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Chapter 18
Police barricades on both the Seventh and Eighth Avenue sides of Forty-third Street blocked all access to The New York Times Building. After a brief discussion, in which she assured Elliot it was unlikely she could be recognized, Lorimer volunteered to ask the police what was happening while Elliot waited across the street.
Upon her return a little later, she told him, “They say there’s been a bomb threat.”
“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
“You think it’s a news blackout.”
Elliot nodded, starting to walk briskly back to Forty-second Street; Lorimer struggled to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“Phones.”
They found one at the comer of Forty-second. Elliot inserted a vendy, punching in the number he had used to call the Cadre. He received a busy signal. “Everybody’s probably calling in,”
Lorimer said.
“I wonder.” Elliot redeposited his vendy, punching “O” for the operator. Busy. He called 411. Also busy. He called the telephone in his family’s abandoned apartment. Harsh, repeating squawks. “Tomorrow,” he told Lorimer, “they’ll probably announce the central switching office was captured by terrorists.”
They crossed over to a newsstand not far from the Rabelais Bookstore; the newsdealer—a grizzled old man—had magazines out but no newspapers; his radio played music loudly from the booth. The old man shook his head. “Sold outa last night’s papers, and that was it. Nothin’ delivered today.”
“Have you heard any news on your radio?” Lorimer asked.
“Not even a hockey score. Been switchin’ stations all day. 172
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WOR is all music, WCBS is off the air. Can’t even find no callin shows.”
“The phones are out,” said Elliot.
“That wouldn’t stop none a them ratchetjaws. They can talk ta themselves fer hours. If ya ask me, I tink it’s a war, and they ain’t figured out how ta tell us yet.”
“They’ve always figured out before.”
He answered softly, drawing them close for a revelation.
“Yeah, but this time it’s gonna be nukuler, ya know? This time it’s gonna be nukuler. Ya just tell me if I’m right.”
“I’ll be the first one,” said Elliot. He turned to Lorimer. “We’d better figure this out.”
They went into McDonald’s next door, Elliot buying two hot cocoas at the counter, then carting them over to a table at the window. “Okay,” he practically whispered to Lorimer. “Newspapers are stopped. Radio is under tight censorship—I think we can assume the same for TV. Phones are dead, wire services are out—”
“Wire services?”
“If OPI—the Oracle—is out, then the rest are out.”
“Oh,” said Lorimer. “You forgot public transit.”
“That’s been out for weeks.”
“It’s still a datum.”
“Possibly. This might have been planned weeks—maybe months—ago. But what does it add up to? First off, do you have any ideas who’s behind this?”
“Well, not the New York police alone. They’re probably cooperating with federal and state authorities. Possibly Civil Defense.”
“You’re assuming it’s the government?” She nodded. “Why not our—uh—friends?”
“You can rule them out, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not capable of it?” Elliot asked.
“Oh, certainly they are—or at least my father thinks so. But Alongside Night
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it would require a massive amount of property violations—
coercion. Our friends are opposed to that sort of thing on principle.”
“Isn’t that a little naive?”
“You can think so if you want. I don’t.”
“Okay, I’ll put that idea on the back burner for the time being. What about a foreign power?” he asked.
“Can you see the New York cops taking orders from Russia?”
“Uh—point granted. If it’s a coup, it’s being run from the top down. Which brings up another point. Military junta?”