But it was too late now. He had used up the three days of his tour in London and had a plane to catch. Next stop: Paris. He smiled and admitted he liked being a stereotype American tourist.
He drew himself into a half-squat in order to comb his sandy hair in the bathroom mirror. Bill had never seen a permanently-mounted mirror high enough for someone six-foot-three to comb his hair without squatting. His sweeping forelock disguised a high forehead and drew attention to his deep green eyes. While he combed, he watched the way his football-hardened muscles pressed against the fabric of his suit coat. No doubt about it, he told himself. At 26, he was a hunk. And, from what he could tell, Molly was a terrific lady. If he was 20 years older. . . he would probably have found out she was married and embarrassed himself.
The elevator door slid open and he dragged his three suitcases out to the check-out desk. The clerk didn't mind Colonists who paid with traveler's checks instead of credit cards, and was quite courteous. He was a welcome change from the cab driver yesterday.
A porter appeared and gathered Bill's luggage. As Bill turned to follow the red uniform out the door, his eye lit upon a familiar face. The lady was short, but then most people seemed short to Bill. She had a moderate build, not fat but far from curvaceous. Her short, medium- brown hair hung straight and unadorned from her head and framed a pair of soft, gray eyes whose tiny crow's feet added depth to the soul that the eyes mirrored. The single strands of gray in the hair seemed to reflect the peace in those eyes, but when combined with her petite nose and pale, well-proportioned lips, gave her face an overall sallow look.
Molly spotted him at the same time, and they ran to each other and embraced. Bill said, "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I might drive you to the airport. Do you mind?"
Bill couldn't believe how much he enjoyed her soft, accepting alto voice and delicate accent. "Mind? I'd sure rather ride with you than some cab jockey who hates Colonists!"
They laughed while Molly directed the porter to her car. Bill climbed in a little awkwardly. As an American journeyman auto mechanic, he still wasn't used to having the steering wheel on the wrong side.
As they drove he asked her profuse questions about herself: background, family, hobbies, etc. The trouble was, he asked them all at once.
"Could you pose those to me again, only in smaller portions this time?" She flashed him a silly smile.
Bill stammered, "I'm sorry. It's just that I suddenly realized I didn't know anything about you. I mean, I did all the talking yesterday and never got a chance to find out what you're like. Uh, I mean, I know you're nice, and friendly and all, but--well, you know, about you."
"I understand what you're saying. I suppose it was selfish of me to press you into talking so much at the expense of your knowledge of me. It's just that I found--find--you so very interesting that I had to take advantage of my opportunity while it was available. I'm sorry."
Bill's eyes widened. "I thought I should apologize. I did all the yakking."
"Well, I promise to yak. First, though, I remembered after I arrived home last evening that I wanted to get your address so I could write you. That's why I came to collect you this morning."
Bill found a scrap of paper and wrote his address on it, then restarted the barrage of questions. Again, he fired them all at her at once.
"Do all Americans ask so many questions at a time?"
"Only when they're afraid of running out of time."
"Well, I'm 38 years old, divorced six years ago, no children. I work in a fabric shop as a cashier and sewing instructor. In my spare time I like to go walking and read. I was born--I say!"
The car in front of them lurched to a stop, and Molly had to screech the tires on her white Toyota to keep from hitting it. She took a deep breath. "I was about to say I was born in London. It's a city that appears to have come to a complete stop all of a sudden."
"Yeah," Bill said as he stared out the window. "And not just the traffic. Check this out."
The whole street resembled a video tape on freeze-frame. Dozens of people stood on the sidewalks, staring in dazed silence. Others sat motionless in their still-running cars. A few huddled around shop windows, pointing at something that Bill and Molly couldn't see.
Molly reached over and turned on the radio. A cultured voice said, ". . .Update you on this crisis again in five minutes. Stay tuned." A commercial came on.
Bill opened his door. Molly said, "What are you doing?"
"We aren't going anywhere for a while. Let's mosey over to one of those windows and see what's going on here."
Molly shrugged, shut the car off and followed her American friend. She had hoped to get him to the airport a little early so they could visit some more. Still, the street was essentially a parking lot now, so they might as well go find out why.
Bill's long legs took him to the opposite curb almost before Molly got out of the car. She dashed after him and said, "I say, Bill. Wait for me."
Bill stopped and turned a red face toward her. "Sorry. I'm not used to traveling in pairs."
She puffed up to his side. "Quite all right. It's not your fault I'm short. Hello there," she said to a middle-aged couple who faltered away from a window. Both seemed to be weeping. "Could you tell us what all the bother is?"
The man didn't seem to hear. He concentrated all his efforts on supporting his wife. Bill tapped him on the arm. "Excuse me, friend. What's going on?"
The man stopped and turned a pair of stunned eyes at him. "What's going on? Haven't you heard? You've done it! You've finally done it! You bloody fools have actually done it!" He spat on Bill's shirt and led the woman away.
Molly fished out a handkerchief and tried to wipe the mess off his shirt. She started to apologize, but Bill cut her off. "I don't think he meant me personally. Let's get to that window!" He grabbed her hand and dragged her the remaining few feet to the half-circle of people. They bullied their way to the front where they could see and Molly whispered, "Oh, my God!"
"Yours and mine both," Bill whispered back.
The window displayed a television set. On the screen, countless red and blue blips drifted in opposite directions across a Mercator-Projection map of the world. Bold letters across the top of the picture announced, "LIVE--BRITISH SATELLITE TRACKING SYSTEM." That wasn't what unnerved Bill. The lower right corner read, "Red--Russian Missiles. Blue-- American Missiles." The lower left read, "ETA: 28 Minutes." As he watched, the time changed to 27 minutes.