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The Smartest Mob . . . (a parable about times soon to come)

Written by David Brin

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

Washington was like a geezer—overweight and sagging, but with attitude. Most of its gutty heft lay below the beltway, in waistlands that had been downwind on Awfulday.

Downwind, but not out.

When droves of upperclass child-bearers fled the invisible plumes enveloping Fairfax and Alexandria, those briefly-empty ghost towns quickly refilled with immigrants— the latest mass of teemers, yearning to be free and willing to endure a little radiation in exchange for a pleasant five-bedroom that could be subdivided into nearly as many apartments. Spacious living rooms began a second life as store fronts. Workshops took over four-car garages and lawns turned into produce gardens. Swimming pools made excellent refuse bins— until government recovered enough to start cracking down.

Passing overhead, Tor could track signs of suburban renewal from her first class seat aboard the Spirit of Chula Vista . Take those swimming pools. A majority of the kidney-shaped ponds now gleamed with clear liquid —mostly water (as testified by the spectral scanning feature of her TruVu spectacles)— welcoming throngs of children who splashed under summertime heat, sufficiently dark-skinned to bear the bare sun unflinching.

So much for the notion that dirty bombs automatically make a place unfit for breeders, she thought. Let yuppies abandon perfectly good mansions because of a little strontium dust. People from Java and Celebes were happy to insource.

Wasn't this America? Call it resolution —or obstinacy— but after three rebuilds, the Statue of Liberty still beckoned.

The latest immigrants, those who filled Washington's waistland vacuum, weren't ignorant. They could read warning labels and health stats, posted on every lamp post and VR level. So? More people died in Jakarta from traffic or stray bullets. Anyway, mutation rates quickly dropped to levels no worse than Kiev, a few years after Awfulday. And Washington had more civic amenities.

Waistlanders also griped a lot less about minor matters like zoning. That made it easier to acquire rights-of-way, re-pioneering new paths back into those unlucky cities that had been dusted. Innovations soon turned those transportation hubs into boom towns. An ironic twist to emerge from terror/sabotage, especially when sky trains began crisscrossing North America.

Through her broad window aboard the Spirit of Chula Vista, Tor gazed across a ten mile separation to the West-Bound Corridor, where long columns of cargo zeppelins lumbered, ponderous as whales and a hundred times larger. Chained single-file and heavily laden, the dirigibles floated barely two hundred meters above the ground, obediently trailing teams of heavy-duty locomotives. Each towing cable looked impossibly slender for hauling fifty behemoths across a continent. But while sky trains weren't fast, or suited for raw materials, they beat any other method for transporting medium-value goods.

And passengers. Those who were willing to trade a little time for inexpensive luxury.

Tor moved her attention much closer, watching the Spirit's majestic shadow flow like an eclipse over rolling suburban countryside, so long and dark that flowers would start to close and birds might be fooled to roost, pondering nightfall. Free from any need for engines of her own, the skyliner glided almost silently over hill and dale. Not as quick as a jet, but more scenic —free of carbon levies or ozone tax— and far cheaper. Setting her TruVus to magnify, she followed the Spirit's tow cable along the East-Bound Express Rail, pulled relentlessly by twelve thousand horses, courtesy of the deluxe maglev tug, Umberto Nobile.

What was it about a lighter-than-air craft that drew the eye? Oh, certainly most of them now had pixelated, tunable skins that could be programmed for any kind of spectacle. Passing near a population center —even a village in the middle of nowhere— the convoy of cargo zeps might flicker from one gaudy advertisement to the next, for anything from a local gift shop to the mail-order wares of some megaCorp. At times, when no one bid for the display space, a chain of dirigibles might tune their surfaces to resemble clouds . . . or flying pigs. Whim, after all, was another modern currency. Everybody did it on the VR levels.

Only with zeppelins, you could paint whimsical images across a whole stretch of the real sky.

Tor shook her head.

But no. That wasn't it. Even bare and gray, they could not be ignored. Silent, gigantic, utterly calm, a zep seemed to stand for a kind of grace that human beings might build, but never know in their own frenetic lives.

"Will you be wanting anything else before we arrive in the Federal District, Madam?" asked a voice from above.

She glanced up at a servitor —little more than a boxy delivery receptacle— that clung to its own slim rail on a nearby bulkhead, leaving the walkway free for passengers.

"No, thanks," Tor murmured automatically, a polite habit of her generation. Younger folk had already learned to snub machinery slaves, except when making clipped demands.

"Can you tell me when we're due?"

"Certainly, Madam. There is a slowdown in progress due to heightened security. Hence, we may experience some delay crossing the Beltway. But there is no cause for alarm. And we remain ahead of schedule because of that tailwind across the plains."

"Hm. Heightened security?"

"For the Artifact Conference, Madam."

"But— " Tor frowned. "That was already scheduled. Taken into account. So it shouldn't affect our timetable."

"There is no cause for alarm," the servitor repeated. "We just got word, two minutes ago. An order to reduce speed, that's all."

Glancing outside, Tor could see the effects of slowing, in a gradual change of altitude. The Spirit's tow cable slanted a little steeper, catching up to the ground-hugging locomotive tug.

Altitude: 359 meters said a telltale in the corner of her left TruVu lens.

"Will you be wanting to change seats for our approach to the nation's capital?" the servitor continued. "An announcement will be made when we come within sight of the Mall, though you may want to claim a prime viewing spot earlier. Children and first time visitors get priority, of course."

"Of course."

A trickle of tourists had already begun streaming forward to the main Observation Lounge. Parents, dressed in bright-colored sarongs and patagonian slacks, herded kids who sported the latest youth fashion —fake antennae and ersatz scales— imitating some of the alien personalities that had been discovered aboard the Dean Artifact. A grand conference may have been called to declare whether it was a genuine case of First Contact, or just another hoax. But popular culture had already cast judgement. The Artifact was cool.

"You say an alert came through two minutes ago?" Tor wondered. Nothing had flashed yet in her peripherals. But maybe the vigilance thresholds were set too high. With a rapid series of clicks on her tooth implant, she adjusted them downward.

Immediately, crimson tones began creeping in from the edges of her specs, offering links that whiffed and throbbed unpleasantly.

Uh-oh.

"Not an alert, Madam. No, no. Just preliminary, precautionary— "

But Tor's attention had already veered. Using both clicks and subvocal commands, she sent her TruVus swooping through the data overlays of virtual reality, following threads of a security situation. Sensors tracked every twitch of the iris, following and often anticipating her choices while colored data-cues jostled and flashed.

"May I take away any rubbish or recycling?" asked the boxy tray on the wall. It dropped open a receptacle, like a hungry jaw, eager to be fed. The servitor waited in vain for a few moments. Then, noting that her focus lay far away, it silently folded and departed.

"No cause for alarm," Tor muttered sardonically as she probed and sifted the dataways. Someone should have banished that cliche from the repertoire of all AI devices. No human over the age of thirty would ever hear the phrase without wincing. Of all the lies that accompanied Awfulday, it had been the worst.

Some of Tor's favorite software agents were already reporting back from the Grid.

Koppel —the summarizer— zoomed toward public, corporate and government feeds, collating official pronouncements. Most of them were repeating the worrisome cliche.

Gallup —her pollster program— sifted for opinion. People weren't buying it, apparently. On a scale of one-thousand, "no cause for alarm" had a credibility rating of eighteen, and dropping. Tor felt a wrench in the pit of her stomach.

Bernstein leaped into the whistle-blower circuits, hunting down gossip and hearsay. As usual, there were far too many rumors for any person —or personal ai— to trawl. Only this time, the flood was overwhelming even the sophisticated filters at the Skeptic Society. MediaCorp seemed no better; her status as a member of the Journalistic Staff only won her a queue number from the Research Division and a promise of response "in minutes."

Minutes?

It was beginning to look like a deliberate disinformation flood, time-unleashed in order to drown out any genuine tattles. Gangsters, terrorists and reffers had learned the hard way that careful plans can be upset by some soft-hearted henchman, wrenched by remorseful second thoughts about innocent bystanders. Many a scheme had been spoiled by some lowly underling, who posted an anonymous squeal at the last minute. To prevent this, masterminds and ringleaders now routinely unleashed cascades of ersatz confessions, just as soon as an operation was underway— a spamming of faux regret, artificially generated, ranging across the whole spectrum of plausible sabotage and man-made disasters.

Staring at a flood of warnings, Tor knew that one or more of the rumors had to be true. But which?

Washington area beltway defenses have already been breached by machoist suiciders infected with pulmonella plague, heading for the Capitol . . .

A coalition of humanist cults have decided to put an end to all this nonsense about a so-called "alien artifact" from interstellar space . . .

The U.S. President, seeking to reclaim traditional authority, is about to nationalize the DC-area civil militia on a pretext . . .

Exceptional numbers of toy airplanes were purchased in the Carolinas , this month, suggesting that a swarm attack may be in the making, just like the O'Hare Incident . . .

A method has been found to convert zeppelins into flying bombs . . .

Among the international dignitaries, who were invited to Washington to view the Dean Artifact, there may be a few who plan to . . .

There are times when human/neuronal paranoia can react faster than mere digital simulacra. Tor's old fashioned cortex snapped to attention a full five seconds before her ais, Bernstein and Columbo, made the same connection.

Zeppelins . . . flying bombs . . .

It sounded unlikely . . . probably distraction-spam.

But I happen to be on a zeppelin.

That wasn't just a realization. The words formed a message. With subvocal grunts and tooth-click punctuations, Tor broadcast it far and wide. Not just to her favorite correlation and stringer groups, but to several hundred Citizen Action Networks. Her terse missive zoomed across the Net indiscriminately, calling to every CAN that had expressed interest in the zep rumor.

This is Tor Pleiades, investigative reporter for MediaCorp —credibility rating seven-hundred and fifty-two— aboard the passenger zep Spirit of Chula Vista . We are approaching the DC Beltway defense zone. That may put me at a right place-time to examine one of the reffer rumors.

I request a smart mob coalescence. Feedme!

Disinformation, a curse with ancient roots, had been updated with ultra-modern ways of lying. Machoists and other bastards might plant sleeper-ais in a million virtual locales, programmed to pop out at a pre-set time and spam every network with autogenerated "plausibles" . . . randomly generated combinations of word and tone that were drawn from recent news, each variant sure to rouse the paranoic fears of someone.

Mutate this ten million times (easy enough to do in virtual space) and you'll find a nerve to tweak in anyone.

Citizens could fight back, combatting lies with light. Sophisticated programs compared eyewitness accounts from many sources, weighted by credibility, offering average folk tools to re-forge Consensus Reality, while discarding the dross. Only that took time. And during an emergency, time was the scarcest commodity of all.

Public avowal worked more quickly. Calling attention to your own person. Saying: "look, I'm right here, real, credible and accountable — I not ai— so take me seriously."

Of course that required guts, especially since Awfulday. In the face of danger, ancient human instinct cried out; duck and cover. Don't draw attention to yourself.

Tor considered that natural impulse for maybe two seconds, then blared on all levels. Dropping privacy cryption, she confirmed her ticketed billet and physical presence aboard the Spirit of Chula Vista, with realtime biometrics and a dozen in-cabin camera views.

"I'm here," she murmured, breathlessly, toward any fellow citizen whose correlation-attention ais would listen.

"Rally and feedme. Tell me what to do."

Calling up a smart mob was tricky. People might already be too scattered and distracted by the rumor storm. The number to respond might not reach critical mass— in which case all you'd get is a smattering of critics, kibbitzers and loudmouths, doing more harm than good. A negative-sum rabble —or bloggle— its collective IQ dropping, rather than climbing, with every new volunteer to join. Above all, you needed to attract a core group —the seed cell— of online know-it-alls, constructive cranks and correlation junkies, armed with the latest coalescence software, who were smart and savvy enough to serve as prefrontals . . . coordinating a smart mob without dominating. Providing focus without quashing the creativity of a group mind.

We recognize you, Tor Pleiades, intoned a low voice, conducting through her jawbone receiver. Direct sonic induction made it safe from most eavesdropping, even if someone had a parabolic dish aimed at her ear.

We have lit a wiki. Can you help us check out one of these rumors? One that might possibly be a whistle-blow?

The conjoined mob-voice sounded strong, authoritative. Tor's personal interface found good credibility scores as it coalesced. An index-marker in her left peripheral showed two-hundred and thirty members and climbing— generally sufficient to wash out individual ego.

"First tell me," she answered, subvocalizing. Sensors in her shirt collar picked up tiny flexings in her throat, tongue and larynx, without any need to make actual sound. "Tell me, has anyone sniffed something unusual about the Spirit? I don't see or hear anything strange. But some of you out there may be in a better position to snoop company status reports or ship-board operational parameters."

There was a pause. Followed by an apologetic tone.

Nothing seems abnormal at the public level. Company web-traffic has gone up six fold in the last ten minutes . . . but the same is true all over, from government agencies to networks of amateur scientists.

As for the zeppelin you happen to be aboard, we're naturally interested because of its present course, scheduled shortly to moor in Washington , about the same time that delegates are arriving for the Artifact Conference.

Tor nodded grimly, a nuance that her interface conveyed to the group mind.

"And those operational readouts?"

We can try access by applying for a Freedom of Information writ. That will take some minutes, though. So we may have to supplement the FOIA with a little hacking and bribery. The usual.

Leave that to us.

Meanwhile, there's a little on-site checking you can do.

Be our hands and eyes, will you, Tor?

She was already on her feet.

"Tell me where to go . . . "

Head aft, past the unisex toilet.

" . . . but let's have a consensus agreement, okay?" she added while moving. "I get an exclusive on any interviews that follow. In case this turns out to be more than . . ."

There is a security hatch, next to the crew closet, the voice interrupted. Adjust your specs for full mob access please.

"Done," she said, feeling a little sheepish over the request for a group exclusive. But after all, she was supposed to be a pro. MediaCorp might be tuning in soon, examining transcripts. They would expect a professional's attention to the niceties.

That's better. Now zoom close on the control pad.We've been joined by an off-duty zep mechanic who worked on this ship last week.

"Look, maybe I can just call a crew member. Invoke FOIA and open it legally— "

No time. We've filed for immunity as an ad hoc citizen posse. Under the post-Awfulday crisis rules.

"Oh sure. With me standing here to take the physical rap if it's refused. . . ."

Your choice, Tor. If you're in, press buttons in this order.

A virtual image of the keypad appeared in front of Tor, overlaying the real one.

"No cause for alarm," she muttered.

What was that?

"Never mind."

Feeling somewhat detached, as if under remote control, her hand reached out to tap the proposed sequence.

Nothing happened.

No good. They must've rotated the progression.

At that moment, the wiki-voice sounded a bit less cool, more individualized. A telltale indicator in her TruVu showed that some high-credibility member of the mob was stepping up with an assertive suggestion.

But you can tell it isn't randomized. I bet it's still a company-standard maintenance code. Here, try this instead.

Coalescence levels seemed to waver only a little, so the mob trusted this component member. Tor went along, punching the pad again with the new pattern.

"Any luck getting that FOIA writ?" she asked, meanwhile. "You said it would take just few minutes. Maybe we'd better wait . . ."

Procrastination met its rebuttal with a simple a click, as the access panel slid aside, revealing a slim, tubelike ladder.

Up.

No hesitation in the mob voice. Five hundred and twelve fellow citizens wanted her to do this. Five hundred and sixteen. . . .

Tor swallowed. Then complied.

****

The ladderway exposed a truth that was hidden from most passengers, cruising in cushioned comfort within the neatly paneled main compartment. Physics —especially gravity— had not changed appreciably in the century that separated the first great zeppelin era from this one. Designers still had to strive for lightness, everywhere they could.

Stepping from spindly rungs onto the cargo deck, Tor found herself amid a maze of spiderlike webbery, instead of walls and partitions. Her feet made gingerly impressions in foamy mesh that seemed to be mostly air. Stacks of luggage —all strictly weighed back in Diegotown— formed bundles that resembled monstrous eggs, bound together by air-gel foam. Hardly any metal could be seen. Not even aluminum or titanium struts.

"Shall I look at the bags?" she asked while reaching into her purse. "I have an omnisniffer."

What model? inquired the voice in her jaw, before it changed tone by abrupt consensus. More authoritatively, it said— Never mind. The bags were all scanned in Diego. We doubt anything could be smuggled aboard.

But a rumor-tattle points to possible danger higher up. We're betting on that one.

"Higher?" She frowned. "There's nothing up there except . . ."

Tor's voice trailed off as a schematic played within her TruVus, pointing aft to another ladder, this one made of ropey fibers.

Arrows shimmered in VR yellow, for emphasis.

We finally succeeded in getting a partial feed from the Spirit's operational parameters. And yes, there's something odd going on.

They are using onboard water to make lift gas, at an unusual rate.

"Is that dangerous?"

It shouldn't be.

But we may be able to find out more, if you hurry.

She sighed, stepping warily across the spongey surface. Tor hadn't yet spotted a crew member. They were probably also busy chasing rumors, different ones, chosen by the company's prioritization subroutines. Anyway, a modern towed-zep was mostly automatic, requiring no pilot, engineer or navigator. A century ago, the Hindenberg carried forty officers, stewards and burly riggers, just to keep the ornate apparatus running and deliver the same number of passengers from Europe to the U.S. At twice the length, Spirit carried five times as many people, served by half a dozen attendants.

Below her feet, passengers would be jostling for a better view of the Langley Crater, or maybe Arlington Cemetery, while peering ahead for the enduring spire of the Washington Monument. Or did some of those people already sniff an alert coming on, through their own liaison networks? Were families starting to cluster near the emergency chutes? Tor wondered if she should be doing the same.

This new ladder was something else. It felt almost alive and responded to her footstep by contracting . . . carrying her upward in a smooth-but-sudden jerk. Smart elastics, she realized. Fine for professionals. But the public had never taken a liking to ladders that twitch. The good news: it would take just a few actual footsteps at this rate, concentrating to slip her soles carefully onto one rung after the next . . . and worrying about what would happen when she reached the unpleasant-looking "hatch" that lay just overhead.

Meanwhile, the voice in her jaw took on a strange, lilting quality. The next contribution must have come from an individual member. Someone generally appreciated.

Come with me, higher than high,

Dropping burdensome things.

Lighter than clouds, we can fly,

Thoughts spread wider than wings.

Be like the whale, behemoth,

Enormous, yet weightless beings,

Soundlessly floating, the sky

Beckons a mammal that sings.

Tor liked the offering. You almost wanted to earn it, by coming up with a tune. . . .

. . . only the "hatch" was now just ahead, or above, almost pressing against her face. A throbbing iris of polyorganic membranes, much like the quasi-living external skin of the Spirit. Coming this close, inhaling the exudate aromas, made Tor feel queasy.

Relax. The voice was back to business. Probably led by the zep mechanic.

You'll need a command word. Touch that nub in the middle to get attention and say Cinnamon.

"Cinnamon?"

It was only a query, but the barrier reacted instantly. With a faintly squishy sound, the door dilated. The stringy stepladder resumed its programmed journey, carrying her upward.

Aboard old-time zeps like Hindenberg, the underslung gondola had been devoted mainly to engines and crew, while paying passengers occupied two broad decks at the base of the giant dirigible's main body. The Spirit of Chula Vista had a similar layout, except that the gondola was mainly for show. Having climbed above all the sections designed for people and cargo, Tor now rode the throbbing ladder into a cathedral of lifter cells, each of them a vast chamber filled with gas that was much lighter than air.

Hundreds of transparent, filmy balloons —cylindrical and tall like Sequoia trunks— crowded and pressed together, stretching from the web-floor where she stood all the way up to the arching ceiling of the Spirit's rounded skin. Tor could only move among these towering columns along four narrow paths leading port or starboard . . . fore or aft. The arrow in her TruVu suggested port, without pulsing insistence. Most members of the smart mob had never been in a place like this. Curiosity —the strongest modern craving— formed more of these ad hoc groups than any other passion.

Heading in the suggested direction, Tor could not resist reaching out, touching some of the tall cells, their polymer surfaces quivering like the giant bubbles that she used to create with toy wands at birthday parties. They appeared so light, so delicate. . . .

Half of the cells contain helium, explained the voice, now so individualized that it had to be a specific person— perhaps the zep mechanic or a dirigible aficionado. See how those membranes are made with a faintly greenish tint? They surround the larger hydrogen cells.

Tor blinked.

"Hydrogen. Isn't that dangerous?"

She pictured the Hindenberg —or LZ 129— that greatest and most ill-fated ancient zeppelin, whose fiery end at Lakehurst, New Jersey, marked the sudden end of the First Zep Era, in May of 1937. Once ignited —( how remained a topic of fierce debate)— flames had engulfed the mighty airship from mooring-tip to gondola, to its swastika-emblazoned rudder in little more than a minute. To this day, journalists envied the news crew that had been on-hand that day with primitive movie cameras, capturing onto acetate some of the most stunning footage and memorable imagery that ever accompanied a technological disaster.

Nowadays, what reff or terror group wouldn't just love to claim credit for an event so vivid? So attention-grabbing?

As if reading her mind, the voice lectured.

Hydrogen is much lighter and more buoyant than helium. Hydrogen is also cheap and readily available. Using it improves the economics of zep travel. Though of course, care must be taken. . . .

Tor was approaching the end of her narrow corridor. For the first time, she encountered the trusswork that kept Spirit rigid —a dirigible— instead of a floppy, balloonlike blimp. A girder made of carbon tubes, woven into an open latticework of triangles, stretched and curved both forward and aft. Nearby, it joined another tensegrity girder at right angles. That one would form a girdle, encircling the Spirit's widest girth.

Tracking Tor's interest, her TruVu spun out statistics and schematics. At 800 feet in length, the Hindenberg had been just ten percent shorter than the Titanic. In contrast, the Spirit of Chula Vista stretched more than twice that length. And yet, its shell and trussworks weighed less than half as much.

Naturally, there are precautions, the voice continued. Take the shape of the gas cells. They are vertical columns. Any failure in a hydrogen cell triggers a pulse, bursting open the top, pushing the contents up and out of the ship, skyward, away from passengers, cargo or people below. It's been extensively tested.

Also, the surrounding helium cells provide a buffer, keeping oxygen-rich air away from those containing hydrogen. Passenger ships like this one carry double the ratio of helium to hydrogen that you'll find on cargo zeps.

"They can replenish hydrogen en route if they have to, right? By cracking water from onboard stores?"

Or even from humidity in the air, using solar power.

And yes, the readouts show unusual levels of hydrogen production, in order to keep several cells filled aboard the Spirit. That's why we asked you to come up here. There must be some leakage. One scenario suggested that it might be accumulating in here, between the cells.

She pulled the omni-sniffer from her purse and began scanning. Chemical sensors were all over the place, nowadays, getting cheaper and more acute all the time— just when the public seemed to need them. For reassurance, if nothing else.

"I'm not detecting very much," she said. Tor wasn't sure how to feel —relieved or disappointed— upon reading that hydrogen levels were only slightly elevated in the companionway.

That confirms what the onboard monitors have already shown. Hardly any hydrogen buildup in the cabins or walkways. It must be leaking into the sky—

"Even so— " Tor began, envisioning gouts of flame erupting toward the heavens from atop the great airship.

— at rates that offer no danger of ignition. The stuff dissipates very fast, Tor, and the Spirit is moving, on a windy day. Anyway, hydrogen isn't dangerous —or even toxic— unless it's held within a confined space.

Tor kept scanning while moving along the spongey path. But hydrogen readings never spiked enough to cause concern, let alone alarm. The smart mob had wanted her to come up here for this purpose— to verify that the onboard detectors hadn't been tampered with by clever saboteurs. Now that her independent readings confirmed the company's, some people were already starting to lose interest. Ad hoc membership totals began to fall.

Any leakage must be into the air, continued the voice of the group mind, still authoritative. We've put out a notice for amateur scientists, asking for volunteers to aim spectranalysis equipment along the Spirit's route. They'll measure parts-per-million, so we can get a handle on leakage rates. But it's mathematically impossible for the amounts to be dangerous. Humidity may go up a percent or two in neighborhoods that lie directly below Spirit's shadow. That's about it.

Tor had reached the end of the walkway. Her hand pressed against the outer envelope— the quasi-living skin that enclosed everything, from gas cells and trusses to the passenger cabin below. Up close, it was nearly transparent, offering a breathtaking view outside.

"We passed the Beltway," she murmured, a little surprised that the diligent guardians of Washington's defensive grid would have allowed the Spirit to pass through that wall of sensors and rays without delay or scrutiny. Below and ahead, she could make out the Umberto Nobile, tugging hard at the tow cable, puffing along the Glebe Road Bypass. Fort Meyers stood to the left. The zeppelin's shadow rippled over a vast garden of gravestones— Arlington National Cemetery.

The powers-that-be have downgraded our rumor, said the voice in her jaw. The nation's professional protectors are chasing down other, more plausible threats . . . none of which have been deemed likely enough to merit an alert. Malevolent zeps don't even make it onto the Threat Chart.

Tor clicked and flicked the attention-gaze of her TruVu, glancing through the journalist feeds at MediaCorp, which were now —belatedly— accessible to a reporter of her level. Seven minutes after the rise in tension caused by that spam flood of rumors, a consensus was already forming. The spam flood had not been intended to distract attention from a terror attack, concluded mass-wisdom. It was the attack. And not a very effective one, at that. National productivity had dropped by a brief diversion factor of one part in twenty-three thousands. Hardly enough damage to be worth risking prosecution or retaliation. But then, hackers seldom cared about consequences.

Speaking of consequences; they were already pouring in from her little snooping expedition. The mavens of propriety at MediaCorp, for example, must be catching up on recent events. A work-related memorandum flashed in Tor's agenda box, revising tomorrow's schedule for her first day of employment at the Washington Bureau. During lunch —right after basic orientation— she was now required to attend counseling on the Exercising Good Judgement In Impromptu Field Situations.

"Oh great," she muttered, noticing also that the zeppelin company had applied a five hundred dollar fine against her account for Unjustified Entry Into Restricted Areas.

PLEASE REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE, MS. PLEIADES, said an override message. AN ATTENDANT WILL ARRIVE AT YOUR POSITION SHORTLY IN ORDER TO HELP YOU RETURN TO YOUR SEAT FOR LANDING.

"Double great."

Ahead, beyond the curve of the dirigible's skin, she spotted the massive, squat bulk of the Pentagon, bristling with missiles, antennae and other security measures . . . still a highly-protected enclave, even ten years after the Department of Defense moved its headquarters to "an undisclosed location in Texas."

Soon, the mooring towers and docking ports of Reagan-Clinton National Skydrome would appear, signalling the end of her cross-continental voyage. And of any